


Beekeeper

by your_starless_eyes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: A lot of hugs ngl, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Android Hank Anderson, Angry Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Anxiety Attacks, Blood, But there are certainly, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor & CyberLife Tower Connor | RK800-60 are Twins, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Needs a Hug, Detroit Police Department (Detroit: Become Human), Disordered Eating, Dubious Ethics, Elijah Kamski & Gavin Reed are Siblings, Elijah Kamski Being Elijah Kamski, Elijah isn't a total dick either, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Family Drama, Family Issues, Fights, Flashbacks, Food Issues, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Gavin Reed Being Less of an Asshole, Gavin has good-ish intentions okay, Gun Violence, Guns, Hair-pulling, Half-Siblings, Hank Anderson & Connor Friendship, Hank Anderson Swears, Hank is trying his best okay, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Kara (Detroit: Become Human), Human Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Human Upgraded Connor | RK900, Introspection, Kinda?, Lunch, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Kara/Luther (Detroit: Become Human), Minor Violence, Nines is also trying his best, Not so much an "eating disorder", Not the "traditional" self harm, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Calls & Telephones, Police, Post-Battle for Detroit (Detroit: Become Human), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Relationships to be added - Freeform, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends, Suicidal Thoughts, Teasing, Trauma, Unresponsive episodes, Violence Against Androids (Detroit: Become Human), Warnings May Change, Writing, but let's be honest, it's still self harm, of sorts, reverse au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2019-11-12 12:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_starless_eyes/pseuds/your_starless_eyes
Summary: It's been almost a year since the failed android revolution in Detroit, and all has been relatively quiet in the city. Quiet is good, at least for thirty-one year old Connor Reed. He's been given enough noise and grief to last multiple lifetimes in the form of his brothers. However, quiet is about to get a lot scarcer when someone has an HX800 android named Hank assigned to him due to "concern for his well-being and mental health."Luckily, Connor knows some people who might be able to help with that.Unfortunately, things don't always work the way you hoped, and sometimes you just end up accidentally restarting a revolution.





	1. Between The Bars

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> I decided to take a crack at a longer Detroit: Become Human fic. This one started as a vent work, but I've decided to clean it up and make it into a real story with a plot. So, here we are!
> 
> It's going to be slow, though. Don't say I didn't warn you.

_Click. Click. Click. Cli—_

“Connor!” a voice snaps. “Stop it with the pen!”

Connor sighs, reluctantly pocketing it and leaning forward on his hands. The words are swimming on the screen in front of him. They don’t make sense. He groans, running a hand through his hair and pulling at it.

 _Why?_  Why did he take up a job as an editor of all things? Because he has a tiny bit of experience in it already because of the internship his foster mother forced him to take? Because of the unfinished manuscript sitting buried in his computer at home? Because it’s so much easier to focus on other people’s mistakes than his own? Because it’s a job and it pays the bills?

He exhales, long and slow. It’s fine. It’s fine.

_Well, it’s not really fine, but it is what it is._

“I said to stop with the pen!”

Connor looks down. Sure enough, his thumb is on the opaque plastic latch, pressing it halfway. He didn’t even notice he took it back out.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He sets it on the desk and glances at the clock.

 _5:28 PM_.

Only two minutes left, and then he can go home and bury himself in words that actually click in his head, like—

“Connor! Do you have a death wish?”

_Actually, yes. Well, maybe. I’m not really sure anymore._

He mumbles an apology to a man he can’t remember the name of because it’s what’s expected. He sits at a desk and reads over other people’s accounts of what the world is like because it’s what’s expected. He runs his whole world by what is “expected” by society, even if it frustrates him to no end. Even if it doesn’t make sense. Truthfully, what makes sense anymore, though?

He kind of wishes he’d gotten a copy of whatever little “social handbook” everyone else seems to have memorised, but he’ll just have to make do for the time being. Perhaps someone will take pity on him and give him a copy. Even if it’s an outdated version, surely it’s better than what he’s got right now.

That is to say… nothing at all.

He manages to sit still for the next couple of minutes, and as the clock changes to _5:30_ , he stands. He pulls his coat on, doing the buttons one at a time—top to bottom—before tying his scarf around his neck. The loop always sits on the right side, the ends even, and he always exits the building through the leftmost door with his bag slung over the matching shoulder.

Outside, the Detroit streets are slightly iced over, with the scent of beginning lake effect snow tainting the air in the best kind of way. Connor can’t help the small smile that crosses his lips at the sight of a small flake drifting by his face. He follows it with his eyes until he loses track of it. He hails a cab and gives his address before looking down at his phone.

 _5:32 PM_.

He never really leaves work “on time.” He’s always at least a handful of seconds late at best. There is no such thing as “on time.” It’s either late or early.

How incredibly irritating.

***

Connor blinks at the screen in front of him, taking a sip of water. The glow of the screen in front of him is comforting even despite the howling wind roaring outside the window behind him. He glances outside, smiling a bit at the flakes of white snow whipping in the wind behind him.

Fragile flakes, drifting in a breeze that takes them wherever. Completely out of control, but that only serves to add, at least in part, to the element of beauty they hold.

If only it were the same for people.

 _But_ , he thinks idly,  _it’s not_.

He sets the glass of water down on the coffee table in front of him. The sun has long since set, and the clock at the corner of his computer screen reads  _11:42 PM_. The living room is almost entirely dark, except for the glow of the screen—set exactly at forty per cent; no more, no less—and the lamp residing in the corner. If he’d bothered to actually make himself dinner, there might be the light of the kitchen, but as it is, that room hasn’t been in use at all today.

Nothing about this house ever changes, aside from the people in it. Perhaps “person” is more accurate than “people,” though. Connor can’t think of the last time there was more than just him.

He  _could_  change it. If he really wanted to, he could go out and buy curtains with some pattern and replace the plain dark grey ones that are currently pushed half open. He could go and make a friend or three and invite them over for a round of drinks every now and then. He can be sociable when he really wants to be; he has a couple of friends already. He probably could force himself to choke down a meal three times a day instead of three times a week, no matter how sickening or unpleasant it would be. He could actually leave his house outside of work and the other scheduled obligations he has.

Just the thought alone makes him want to cry, though.

Humanity is… a complicated creation, to say the least. One that Connor isn’t entirely sure he wants to be a part of but is forced to endure all the same. Sure, he could kill himself and end it all, but why would he? There’s no point in doing that, in wasting a life. There’s no purpose in destroying a complex being that was made entirely by accident. All those little mutations and mistakes that eventually led from the creation of the human race to… a bigger and arguably worse mistake— _him_.

A mistake no one could even think of a solution for. One bounced from home to home, family to family, until he eventually—through some miracle—made it to the age of majority, whereupon he promptly cut all ties with those people who had tolerated him only because it was  _expected_.

It always comes full circle. Everything boils down not to what the people want, but to what the creature named “society” wants. The most perplexing thing to Connor, though, is not that society exists, but more that people just let it do as it will. That they never question it the way he does, and how they seem almost angry when he voices his confusion.

He sighs tiredly, rubbing his face. He can feel the knots developing in the muscles in his neck and shoulders from his awkward position, the occasional twitches starting in his strained eyes, the way his fingers tremble as they rest atop the keys of his laptop. They’re unable to keep steady, even when braced against something.

 _A cruel parallel_.

Connor licks his lips, eyes flicking over the eleven-point font in front of him. Times New Roman, of course—almost all of the other fonts makes him want to throw the laptop across the room and claw his eyes out. There’s just something so horribly  _wrong_  with all the others. He can’t name it, of course. He only knows that they’re wrong. Should he have to explain why they are? The reason that they simply are should be enough, but every time he tries to explain, everyone always asks for a “legitimate reason.” Every single time, without fail.

It’s  _upsetting_. That should be reason enough, but for whatever reason, it never is.

He types slowly, barely resisting the urge to close his eyes and just sleep until the alarm on his phone tells him it’s time to get up and get ready for work. He can’t, though. Not yet. Not until the clock reads  _12:00 AM_  and the date flips over to a new day. He can’t get out of that, even if he wants to. He may tell himself that he’s choosing to sleep at midnight, choosing to get up and get ready at seven-thirty, but it’s never really his choice. Nothing is ever anyone’s choice. People are nothing if not creatures of habit, enslaved by their routines. Though most might break free momentarily, they always fall back. They don’t call things “bad habits” for nothing, but they never tell you where things stop being habits and fall into addictions.

Yes, all people are trapped, but some are more trapped than others. As for Connor, he is a prisoner of a cruel and vicious cycle he can’t stop. Even if he could, he probably wouldn’t. There’s something almost comforting about the predictability. The only issue that comes about is when something unforeseen and unpreventable is thrown at him, making a large wave in an otherwise perfectly calm sea. Ruining everything and shattering his stability.

He blinks quickly, trying to reorient himself as he types.

***

_In the darkness, or in the light, it never mattered. I never saw. Not because I couldn’t, but perhaps because I never wanted to. I couldn’t tell. The difference had become so faded and blurred that it didn’t even exist anymore._

_We knew only the taste of panic and fear and anxiety and sadness and… there must have been something more, but he and I couldn’t ever find it. As if it had slowly dissolved like sugar on our tongues until there was nothing left but the memories. It was a taste that we could recall faintly, even if we hadn’t tasted it in years, if not a decade._

_It's dramatic, but it was the only way I can think of that will put it into words._

_I always have to put everything into words. No one ever accepts anything in any other format, for some reason._

***

Connor sighs. He rubs his temples and sits up, stretching out his arms. The air is cool on his skin—the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders has fallen off, leaving him exposed to the chilled winter air. He shivers and rubs his arms before casting one last glance at his document. The words are fuzzy, but he hopes they possess some semblance of sanity all the same. He saves it and closes the laptop before setting it on the coffee table and lying down across the worn couch.

It’s not a bad couch, per se, but it is incredibly uncomfortable after long periods of time. It’s as if the bones of his spine mould over time to match the worn fabric and filling of the furniture. Getting up is always a bit frustrating and sometimes painful.

He pushes himself to his feet and stretches, hearing the way his bones crack and pop and settle back into place. The frightening thought that he might have pulled a bone out of place or something similar is in the back of his head—it always is—but he ignores it. He turns back towards the couch and folds the blanket, setting it neatly atop the back of the couch before straightening his button-up shirt and turning off the lamp.

He walks in the darkened hallway to the bathroom and turns on the light. The bulbs here are more yellow than the softer white ones of the living room and kitchen. He keeps meaning to change them, to fix that, but he never does. He ought to, though.

With a sigh, Connor turns on the water and picks up his toothbrush. He wets it and squeezes a small glob of toothpaste onto the bristles before wetting it again and putting it in his mouth. He turns the water off and begins to brush. While he does, he lets his thoughts wander.

 _So_ , he thinks idly,  _what are we doing today?_

The answer is always the same, though it may vary just slightly from day to day, but it gives him a great sense of satisfaction to remind himself all the same. A mental checklist of sorts.

 _It’s Saturday, so that means work from eight to two. Afterwards, I need to go pick up the dry cleaning from last week and drop off the new load. Groceries and other errands while I’m out, and then cleaning the house. That should all be done by six. If applicable, dinner will be made and eaten by seven-thirty. After that, I can sit down and write for a few hours_.

Connor spits the toothpaste into the sink, being careful to rinse it all down the drain. He cups his hands and collects a handful of water; he brings it to his lips and swishes the water through his mouth before spitting it out. He dries his face and hands with a white hand towel hanging on the wall to the right of the counter. Avoiding his reflection, Connor turns off the water, sets his toothbrush back in the holder, and caps the toothpaste. He adjusts everything back into place and pulls the towel straight.

 _Perfect_.

He turns out the light and walks down the corridor to his bedroom.

His room is fairly barren, with minimal decoration. The walls are the same shade of navy blue they were when he bought the house, and the comforter is a plain grey with white sheets beneath it. The desk is clean, and in the drawers, everything is organised. The same goes for the drawers of the dresser, with each article of clothing carefully folded and set against the wooden bottoms. His shirts and trousers all hang in neat rows in the small closet.

With a heavy sigh, Connor sits on the edge of his bed, brushing his hair from his forehead. There’s one piece that never lies with the rest. It always opts to lie across his forehead, no matter what he does to try to tame it. He’s tried gel, water, combing… No matter what he does, though, it always falls back over his forehead. Never quite in his eyes, but there all the same. “A cowlick,” Madeline used to call it when he lived with her. Connor always argued that he’d never been anywhere near a cow until Gavin finally explained that “It’s just a name for the style, stupid.”

He grits his teeth, unable to help the spark of something that the thought of his adoptive brother creates. He can’t name it. He’s never been able to, but there’s always been something just inexplicably irritating about Gavin that Connor never experiences with anyone else. Of course, no one ever understood when he did try to explain it.

Yet another reason he cut ties with the Reed family as soon as he could. Not to be rude, of course, but because he physically couldn’t take another day of pretending that everything was always all right when it was, in fact, not.

He unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off, dropping it in the basket of dirty clothes. He’ll sort the contents later—dry cleaning and normal wash—and deposit each article in its proper location. He pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms before yanking off his socks—left, then right—and tossing them into the basket.

And that’s the end… right?

Connor frowns. He feels like he’s forgotten something. There’s something off. What it is?

He stands and walks back down the hall, feet pattering softly on the wooden floor. The lights are all off. Did he forget to lock the front door? He walks over and turns the handle. It doesn’t budge—locked.

A huff of frustration escapes his lips as he turns on his heel. There is something horribly wrong, and he can’t name it.

The door _was_ locked, right? He didn’t just imagine that because he expected it to be?

He twists the knob again. Nothing.

 _Good_.

The living room is in perfect order. The porch light is off. The doors are all closed, except for his bedroom. All the lights are off aside from the one in the hallway. Everything seems in place.

With a groan that comes out a lot louder than he intended, Connor walks back to the bedroom and turns off the light. He slips beneath his blanket and stares at the ceiling with a frown, unable to relax. There’s something that just feels wrong. It’s like the air pressure is slightly off, indicating a storm in the distance.

He just hopes that when it hits, the consequences aren’t too devastating.


	2. Smother

Connor blinks, opening his eyes to the sound of the alarm on his phone. He turns on his side, reaching over and turning it off.

There have been no horrible incidents. The world is still turning. He’s still breathing.

So why does everything still feel like it’s off?

Connor sighs and sits up, running a hand through his hair. He feels exhausted, even though he knows he slept the whole night. He stands, opening his closet. He selects a button down and plain black trousers before walking to the bathroom and flipping on the light.

He picks up his toothbrush and squeezes a bit of toothpaste onto it. As he brushes his teeth, his eyes track up to the mirror before he can stop himself.

It’s not so much that Connor hates his appearance, but more along the lines of not appreciating it. The freckles and moles on his face and neck, the thin lines etched into his forehead from years of worry… it all looks like too much. His brown hair is in need of a cut, and the skin beneath his eyes is discoloured from exhaustion and over-work. He looks worn, tired, and older than he really is.

He rinses his toothbrush and mouth, recapping the toothpaste and setting his toothbrush back in the holder.

Shivering in the cool air of the bathroom, Connor turns on the shower, turning the knob to the hottest setting. Within a few minutes, the air is made humid with steam, and he pulls off his pyjamas before dropping them into the hamper. He climbs into the shower, letting the scalding water pour over his body.

Rubbing his face with wet hands, he sighs and picks up the bottle of shampoo. He squeezes a glob into his hand and lathers it up before working it through his hair.

Connor’s movements are quick and methodical. There’s no point in wasting time here. He rinses the shampoo out of his hair and conditions it, making sure to rinse everything out as best as he can. Even though he’s almost certain he’s gotten it all out, he swears he can still feel suds around his ears and under his fingers.

He sighs and picks up the loofah, squeezing a generous amount of soap onto it. He scrubs his body a bit harder than he probably needs to, allowing the lather coat his skin, and then lets the water rinse it down the drain.

He turns off the water and shakes his wet hair out before pushing aside the shower curtain and stepping out onto the soft blue bath mat. He pulls his towel from the rail and unfolds it, drying off his hair and body. Once he’s dried himself off entirely, he picks up his shirt and pulls it on, boxers and trousers following immediately after. He hangs the towel back up, and then walks to the mirror, picking up a comb and attempting to fix his hair.

The stray pieces still lie over his forehead, even when he tries to comb them back.

He walks back to his bedroom and pockets his mobile. He opens his sock drawer and pulls out a pair of matching black socks, leaning down and picking up his shoes. Pulling his socks and shoes on, and then grabbing the hamper, Connor dumps his clothes on the floor, quickly sorting them into dry cleaning and home wash. He bags the dry cleaning and picks it up. After grabbing his coat from the back of his desk chair, he sets off towards another long day out and about.

***

When mid-day rolls around, Connor is already tired and drained. By the end of it, he feels like he’s at his wit’s end entirely, though he’s not sure why. It isn’t as if anything bad happened; if anything, it was very mundane and simple. It’s like he’s almost completely detached from himself, but is still present enough to know what’s happening at any given moment. It feels a bit like watching himself from afar, but not quite.

It’s always an unsettling experience, no matter how many times it happens.

The sun is setting when he arrives back at home with two paper bags of groceries in his hands. The street is darkened with the deep, black shadows of the houses behind the pavement. The streetlight in front of his house has gone out yet again, but there’s no sign of the familiar neon blue glow of an android uniform near it. There is no sound of children playing, no sound of cars driving by. There is no sign of another being, be it living or not, human or machine.

The neighbourhood is deathly silent.

_But a little death never hurt anyone, right?_

He sets one bag down and pulls out his keys. It takes him multiple tries to get the key into the lock, but eventually, he manages to do it. With a nervous glance at the street behind him, he pockets his keys again and picks the bag up before stepping inside his house. He'll go back to the car after he puts away the groceries and get his dry cleaning.

Connor walks briskly to the kitchen, setting the bags of groceries on the counter. He flips on the lights, and the room is quickly lit with a yellow glow.

 _Why yellow?_ he muses as he opens the refrigerator. He pulls out several containers of spoiled leftovers and sets them on by the sink. _Why are some lights yellow and other white? Why not just use a universal… light colour? Would it be yellow or white if they did? Or maybe a different colour entirely? Why do we use yellow and not... say, blue or red? Purple? Orange? I wonder what the science behind light colours is. Well, not really “behind light colours.” More like… why we choose the lights we do. Is that a science?_

He continues to ponder the world and its light preferences as he pulls out dehydrated and moulding fruits and vegetables with a wrinkle of his nose. He drops them in a plastic bag to take to the compost later.

Connor turns and opens a drawer by the sink, pulling out a white washcloth. He wets it with warm water before wiping out the drawer where the fruits and vegetables were. He rinses it out after he’s certain the drawer is clean and hangs it on a small rack.

The silence is too loud. Connor pulls out his phone and opens his music library. He places it on shuffle and turns up the volume, setting his phone on the counter. He recognises the first song immediately, just from the soft guitar.

 _Beekeeper_.

“ _Believe me, this loneliness won’t go away_ ,” Connor sings along under his breath. “ _Hear me, oh, woman that has gone astray, gone astray…_ ”

He picks up the bag of cold and frozen items and begins to put them away, letting Keaton Henson’s soft voice wash over him as he does so.

_“Your friends, your friends will always just be in your way. Trust me, they’ll die or leave you, either way, either way…_

_“You all say I’ve crossed a line, but the sad fact is I’ve lost my mind. You all say I’ve crossed a line, but the sad fact is I’ve lost my mind..._

_“And I’m just getting started, let me offend. The devil’s got nothing on me, my friend. All I want is to be left alone; tact from me is like blood from a stone…”_

***

Connor hangs up his last shirt, closing the closet door and turning out the light.

 _Perfect_. Everything is done.

The feeling of satisfaction that comes with accomplishing something is warm and stems from somewhere deep inside him. He’s always liked to follow orders, because it is then that he knows exactly what is expected of him. There is no guesswork; it is pure and simple. When there are none, he makes them for himself. It is addictive and holds him captive, and yet, he doesn’t feel much—if any—desire to break free. The satisfaction he feels is such a rare thing that it serves as too powerful a motivator to just… dispose of.

If he was asked to, Connor is sure he could never explain himself to anyone. He knows himself well enough to guess he would likely freeze and panic before a single word could work free of his mouth. He doesn’t have the “social skills” to explain his thoughts to anyone and never will—or, that’s what Collins told him.

Maybe Connor just took his twin’s harsh words, spoken in the heat of the moment, to heart and made them true.

_“You’ve been a great disappointment to Madeleine. I hear her complaining about you all the time. You need to step up, Connor, or they’ll get tired of you. Tell them what the hell it is that goes through your head. Tell me, or Gavin, or Elijah. Eli has a couple doctorates; I’m sure one of them is in psychology. Oh, wait… you couldn’t do that, can you? You lack even the most basic of social skills; you won’t be able to get a single word out.”_

Connor shakes his head with a sigh of annoyance. Even now, about five years later, he can recall Collins’ sneer and the accompanying shove to the ground. He remembers Markus watching from afar as Connor stood back up and pushed back. Then, Gavin grabbing at Connor’s arm and yanking him away, telling him to “calm the fuck down” because “it was just a little shove, so grow the hell up.” The flash of anger rose quickly and without warning, hot and violent and so unlike him, and then his fist was connecting with Gavin’s nose. As Markus later said, “after that, all hell broke loose.”

Connor can still feel the imprints of metal handcuffs around his wrists, Gavin and Collins on either side of him in the small car while Markus tried to explain everything to the police. He can quote Gavin’s hasty phone call to his half-brother almost verbatim. When Officer Miller unlocked the small holding cell and told them they were free to go, the relief was so strong that it almost knocked him to his knees. His knows Elijah’s willingness to use his influence and money to keep all three of them out of jail and their records clean has left him indebted to his oldest adoptive brother. He still has both Madeleine and Jameson’s disapproving stares burned into his memory, and he hasn’t willingly spoken to either Gavin or Collins since, outside of a couple obligatory calls. Gavin is the only one that tries to contact him with any sense of regularity, and Connor is aware he’s running out of excuses to avoid him, but Connor holds a grudge like a dehydrated man holds onto water in the desert.

Is that petty? He can’t bring himself to care if it is.

Connor turns on his heel and walks to the living room and sits on the couch, picking up his laptop. He opens and unlocks it, opening his manuscript and settling down.

***

 _With deadened eyes and spots of white chassis showing through patchy nanofluid skin, he looked like the product of a nightmare. His standard Cyberlife uniform was stained blue with Thirium and his voice was static with panic that sounded raw and human. The begging was hard to listen to, but the soldier was even colder than the machine in front of him_.

It can’t be real, _I thought, but it was. The scene was unfolding right in front of me, larger than life._

_The blood that stained his skin may have been blue, but in that moment, he was completely human. One hundred per cent human._

_Kara and I could only watch in silent horror as the soldier pulled the trigger, the bullet ripping through the deviant’s skull with ease. It collapsed into the snow, going stiff._

_Dead._

_“It can’t be dead,” we had been told. It was always the same spiel. “It was never alive.”_

_But what if we were all wrong?_

_Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d been brave enough to try to save him_.

***

Connor sets his laptop on the table, folding his legs as he rests his arms on top of his knees.

Details, details, details. He is cursed with a keen eye for them; they are everywhere, and while he may have trouble seeing the “whole forest,” the metaphorical trees are often permanently embedded in his memory.

He remembers almost every single one of them as far as that night he saw an android “die” for the first time, right down to the model of the deviant android—an AP700. It was one of the newest models in Detroit, and Cyberlife’s “flagship” at the time. Connor would have never given the android a second thought if it hadn’t been for the LED cycling a bright red at his temple as he watched the carnage unfolding in front of them, if it hadn’t been for the way he practically trembled behind a car each time one of the armed guards walked by.

Connor isn’t sure if the android ever saw him or Kara walking by. He hopes not.

He sighs, pulling out his phone and opening his gallery. He opens a photo, a small smile crossing his face despite himself as he looks at it.

A petite young woman with short blonde hair and delicate features, it would be a lie for Connor to say that Kara isn’t beautiful. In this picture, she’s laughing at something. Her face is bright and her blue eyes are closed, showing off her subtle eye makeup. Her adopted daughter, Alice, hugs her waist tightly. Kara’s arms are wrapped around her daughter’s shoulders, and Alice’s face is lit with the kind of joy only a child can have. The picture is nearing a year old, but there’s still an ethereal sort of beauty to it, even now—just the same as every other picture Kara’s husband has ever taken. Despite his intimidating size, there’s a kind of delicacy and care that Luther puts into everything he does. He’s what Kara calls a “gentle giant,” and Connor still can’t think of a better description for the man.

He first met Kara entirely by accident in 2036—quite literally. Not paying attention to where he was walking, Connor had accidentally bumped into her and spilled coffee all down the front of her coat. He expected her to be angry, but instead, she just laughed and assured him that she’d had worse things than coffee spilled on her. Still flustered and apologetic, Connor offered to buy her lunch and pay for cleaning her coat, despite Kara’s insistence that “accidents happen” and that it wasn’t necessary to compensate at all. Eventually, he managed to convince her to let him, and they ended up exchanging numbers. Kara later admitted she’d originally thought he was trying to come onto her and that that’d been her main reason for rejecting his offers, but eventually realised his intentions were genuine. They’d had a good laugh over it.

Connor chews idly on his lip as he opens his call log. He hasn’t made a proper call in almost three months—the last person he called was his boss when he was sick with the flu. He scrolls through the log a bit more, and his stomach drops when he realises how long it’s been since he’s talked to some of the people he used to consider his friends.

_(→) Markus Manfield — 08/01/2039_

_(→) Kara Williams — 04/07/2039_

_(→) Nines — 12/25/2038_

_(←) Gavin Reed — 12/24/2038_

He presses his lips together at the sight of the last two, and then turns off his screen. He stares blankly at the wall in front of him, eyes tracking to the single black and white painting on it.

It was a gift from Markus, for Connor’s twenty-ninth birthday. It’s all thick lines of black on a white background, creating a pen that has a small city skyline in the ink that flows from the nib. Connor stares at it a lot—particularly when he's struggling through writer’s block. Something about the way the canvas shows a writer’s pen creating a whole new world… it helps settle the unease, usually.

Today is not one of those days.

Connor buries his face in his arms, sighing heavily. He should call Markus, or Kara, or maybe even one of his brothers. He knows he’s killing off every relationship he has, good and bad, but he can’t bring himself to care, either. Maybe it’s better this way.

In the end, he’ll only hurt them. That’s what Gavin told him, during one of their many fights, and in the end, Connor only seems to prove him right.

_…don’t think about that._

Connor looks up at the ceiling, watching as the can lights in the ceiling flicker slightly. He feels off balance. It’s as if some invisible being is pulling on his arm, keeping him leaning. He can’t ever get rid of it.

He wonders, briefly, if it might be loneliness.

Lit with a new kind of inspiration, Connor picks up a pen and notebook from the coffee table, scribbling down his thoughts.

***

_Loneliness is, perhaps, the strangest kind of companion._

_He holds your wrist, leading you blindly through life without you ever realising. He extends his hand when you’ve fallen before yanking your back down and kicking you. He tells you that you are worthless and that no one cares about you, but whispers sweet words in your ears when you try to leave. He’s constantly daring you to try to live without him. He tells you that no one could ever tolerate such a broken human being, and you should stay with him, because you are only getting what you deserve._

_And you believe him, no matter how much everyone assures you that his words are lies, because he insists they are not, and maybe you’re dependant on him now. Maybe you don’t know how to live any other way. Maybe you accidentally became addicted to the feeling, and you can’t stop it, can’t stop him._

_Or maybe you can. Maybe you just don’t want to._

_Maybe I don’t want to._

***

There’s a sudden flash of anger in Connor’s bones as he throws his pen down hard enough that it bounces off the table to the floor. He clutches his notebook so tightly it leaves his knuckles white around the cover.

It isn’t fair.

It’s such a childish phrase, and yet, it’s the only thing he can think right now. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair. It isn’t—

_Can you even complain about something you’re doing to yourself, though?_

Just as quickly as it came, the anger dies out. It fizzles, leaving him drained and numbed.

Hollow.

He feels hollow. Void, empty, drained… whatever synonyms are out there, Connor thinks they’re all fitting.

He’s slowly becoming a ghost. He’s not a writer, not an editor. He’s not even a functional adult anymore. He has no friends, no family. Even his twin doesn’t want a thing to do with him anymore. Though a part of him knows he should feel relieved at that, another longs for the familiarity of Collins. Connor thinks he might be dissolving into nothingness.

It _should_ scare him, but he doesn’t feel a thing.

Maybe he never did. Maybe he is just a machine, the same as every mass-produced android in the streets of Detroit. 

Connor is jerked out of his thoughts as the phone rings; it disorients him enough that he doesn't even think about checking the contact. Instead, he answers it and brings it to his ear.

“Hel—”

“Hey, Connor,” Gavin’s voice drawls.

Connor's stomach twists, and he tries not to groan out loud. Gavin.

_Great._

“Hey, arsehole, are you planning to answer me?” Gavin snaps.

“H-hello, Gavin,” Connor manages to grit out. “What a… _surprise_.”

“Yeah, well, word has it ‘round the station that you’re not doing too hot,” Gavin explains. “Just calling to check in on my little brother.”

“I’m not—” Connor barely bites back the words “your brother.” He huffs in frustration, the stray pieces of hair at his forehead moving in the breath. “I’m fine. Thank you for checking in on me.”

“So you didn’t have a complete breakdown in the post office this last weekend?” Gavin sounds almost smug. “Is it just a rumour, then?”

“Who told you that?” Connor asks, his voice breaking all of a sudden. “That’s not your business.”

“Family is my business,” Gavin corrects. “Besides, Collins told me.”

_Of course he did._

“Why am I not surprised?” Connor mutters. “You get along better with my twin than I do.”

“That's how it sometimes be on this bitch of an earth,” Gavin tells him, and Connor can _hear_ his smirk. “But yeah. He told me about it. Thought I’d make sure you’re okay.”

It's so… _fake_.

Connor may have a hard time reading most people, but Gavin has always been simple to him. Every little thing he says, at least to Connor, is designed for one of a handful of purposes: humiliating, guilt tripping, blackmailing, or manipulating, with very few exceptions. This… Connor isn’t sure which it is yet.

“Gavin, I don’t really have the time for—” Connor begins, but the older man cuts him off.

“How’s that book you’ve been writing coming along?” he asks conversationally.

Connor blinks in confusion, his eyes flicking over to his laptop. “What?”

“Your novel,” Gavin says, sounding annoyed. “The one you’ve been writing, that’s based around the revolution from last year. How’s it coming?”

“I—I don’t know,” Connor stammers. “It’s nowhere near done, but I think—I don’t know. It’s… going.”

“You always get so nervous when anyone asks about your damn book,” Gavin huffs. “It’s not a big deal. You’re not fucking J.K. Rowling or whatever.”

“I most certainly am not,” Connor agrees, concerned. “If I were, I wouldn’t be here.”

Gavin is quiet for a moment, and Connor can hear a cat gently purring in the background.

“Gavin, I should really—” Connor begins again.

“Shut up.” Gavin’s voice is void of emotion. “I know you hate me, Connor, and I don’t really blame you, but stop trying to use every excuse in the fucking world to avoid me. It’s insulting. Just grow a pair and say you don’t want to talk to me to my fucking face.”

Connor can feel heat rising in his cheeks. “I-it’s not like that,” he protests weakly.

“Isn’t it?” Gavin sneers, his words suddenly taking on an edge so sharp that Connor can physically feel it stabbing into his chest. “It sure as hell seems that way to me, _buddy_.”

“I don’t—”

“Let’s see,” Gavin interrupts. “I invite you out for drinks, and you say ‘oh, I don’t drink.’ Fair enough. Invite you to the Eden Club for a show. ‘I’m not comfortable with a strip show.’ Again, valid. I won’t be a dick about that. But over time, Conn, it starts getting ridiculous. Invite you out for dinner. ‘I’m not really hungry. Maybe another time.’ Coffee. ‘Already had some today.’ Mom invited you to the house for Thanksgiving, and you said you had plans. Then, when I got sick and couldn’t make it, you were magically free! You reject my calls, and you have me blocked on most social medias. Did you come up to the precinct after the revolution to see how I was doing? You didn’t even come to see how Tina was, and I _know_ you like her. When's the last time you called me or even _spoke_ to me, Connor? _I_ called _you_ on Christmas.” Gavin sounds angry now, and Connor’s mouth has gone dry.

“I—I’m sorry,” Connor whispers. “It isn’t like that, Gavin. I don’t hate you.”

“What the fuck, Connor?” Gavin shouts, and Connor hears him stand up. “Are you shitting me right now?”

“I—”

“Just _say_ it! At least give me the closure! Let me know I'm wasting my time trying to make up with you so I can move on with my fucking life. If you didn't hate me, you wouldn't pull shit like you do!”

“I don’t hate you!” Connor shouts, hating how his voice breaks. “Stop it!”

“I fucking know you do,” Gavin hisses. “You think I was trying to ruin your life the day we all got arrested? Is that it?”

“N-no!” Connor cries. “Stop!”

“You’re pathetic, Connor,” Gavin sneers. “You can’t even say the fucking truth.”

“I swear, I’m telling you the truth,” Connor says, wiping at the tears building in his eyes. He lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry if it’s not what you want to hear.”

“You’re not doing too well, are you?” Gavin suddenly asks, his voice too sweet to be genuine. “Breakdowns in post offices. Acting out at work. Crying all the time. Pathologically lying. Someone might question the state of your mental health.”

“Gavin, what are you saying?” Connor asks, dread filling him. “Gavin, don’t you dare do anything rash. Please. I’m sorry, okay?”

“I’m calling Nines,” Gavin whispers.

With that, the line clicks dead. Connor is frozen for a couple of seconds, and then he scrambles to unlock his phone. He scrolls quickly through his contacts, finding the one he’s looking for.

 _Nines_.

He swipes to call without thinking twice, desperation coursing through his veins. He has to get to Nines before Gavin.

The phone rings for several seconds, until suddenly it buzzes and goes to voicemail. Connor looks over the templated message.

From: Nines (08:29)  
_I'm currently having a conversation with someone else and will return your call shortly. -9_

“No!” Connor shouts, his throat closing up as panic takes over. “No, no, you can’t—” He breaks, burying his face in the blanket as he sobs. “ _No!_ ”

Nines—the alias of an information broker residing in downtown Detroit, with a stash that could put the FBI to shame. If anyone ever needs to know anything, chances are, Nines has it. He’ll be more than willing to give it up… for the right price. The price is seldom worth it, though. He often gives Connor a nice discount, though, citing that “you're pleasant enough and perhaps the only person I service who drops by just to say hello.”

Connor doesn't know how long it's been since he's stopped by.

Gavin’s payment is not giving up Nines’ location to the police. In turn, Nines will give him just about anything he wants to know, with some small exceptions. If Gavin is looking for something on someone, chances are it’s not for a good reason.

And now he’s looking for something on Connor, and without a shadow of a doubt, Nines will have plenty.

Connor lets his mind wander. It could be anything. Embarrassing facts about his past. Information on his birth parents. His health records—physical and mental. Anything is fair game when it comes to Nines and Gavin knows—

Connor’s head jerks up as his phone rings. He answers it quickly.

“Connor Reed,” Nines’ cool voice greets. “How _did_ I know you would call?”

“What did you tell him?” Connor gasps out. “What did he want?”

“It’s against my policies to give out information on my clients, unless it’s paid for,” Nines replies easily. “Would you like to do that?”

“Nines, please,” Connor begs. “He’s going to do something bad with whatever you gave him. Please, tell me.”

“Connor, you know I can’t just give this sort of thing up like that,” Nines sighs. There’s the sound of a filing cabinet closing and locking. “Is there any other way I may help you?”

“Please,” Connor whispers. “I’m asking as a friend.”

“And I’m telling you as a business owner, I’m sorry, but I can’t give you what you want,” Nines says. “If you’d like to come visit me some time, we may discuss a payment, and you may buy your files from me to avoid a situation like this in the future.”

“I can’t afford that and you know it,” Connor whispers weakly. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Nines repeats, sounding not as apologetic as Connor thinks he should. “Is that the only reason you called?”

“I—” Connor wipes his eyes, sniffling. It’s pathetic. It’s so pathetic, and he knows it. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Nines tells him. “Have a good night, Connor. I hope to see you pop in some time soon.”

With that, Nines hangs up, and Connor throws his phone across the room, crying harder.

***

Connor jerks out of restless sleep as heavy, hard knocking hits his door. He practically falls off the couch when he scrambles to his feet, clutching the blanket tightly to his shoulders.

_Go away, go away, go away…_

The knocking only gets louder, though, and Connor walks slowly towards the door. He peers through the window, but he can't see anything through the veil of night.

“Connor, I know you’re in there,” Markus’ calm voice says through the wood. “It’s Markus. Open the door, please.”

Connor freezes, pressing his back against the wall. He can feel his heart pounding from the scare, and after a couple of seconds of hesitation, he opens the door a crack and peers through. He doesn't stop to think about it.

The figure that stands in front of him is _definitely_ not Markus.

Markus' hair is a dark brown and buzzed close to his scalp—not grey and shoulder length. Markus is shorter and leaner than the figure in front of him. Markus' eyes are green, but these are blue and cold, and Markus is certainly not an android.

The android Markus had two different coloured eyes, anyway, before it was destroyed.

Connor’s eyes flick from the blue LED at the android’s temple, to the triangular insignia on the right side of its jacket, to the blue band around its right arm, to the model name and serial number on the left side of the jacket.

 _HX800_  
_#429 084 317 - 51_

Connor can’t help but notice the last five digits of the android’s serial number are the same as the famed deviant hunter that shared his name last year—the RK800, serial number 313 248 317 - 51. Connor still has the number memorised. He studied the android obsessively when the investigative model was first revealed to the public—he couldn’t not. The RK800 held a startling resemblance to him, the least of which had to do with his name, but after the foiled android revolution, it disappeared. Connor heard it was deactivated, but he’s yet to confirm that rumour. There’s only two people that would be willing to tell him. He can’t afford one and doesn’t speak often to the other.

“M-may I help… you?” Connor asks weakly, remembering where he is.

“ _You’re_ Connor Reed?” the android asks. Its gaze is sharp, as if it’s sizing him up.

“Yes,” Connor answers, still not opening the door all the way.

The HX800’s blue eyes focus on his face, and Connor realises it’s scanning him.

“May I _help_ you?” he repeats.

“Mind if I come in?” the android asks.

The request catches Connor off guard. After a couple of seconds, he nods and steps back, opening the door and letting the android in. He can’t be more than a couple of inches taller than Connor, but he seems to loom over him all the same. He looks like he could snap Connor in half with ease.

It's unsettling.

Connor looks down nervously, feeling out of place. He feels like a coiled spring, as if he'll snap if the android so much as looks at him. He can't even remember what the HX models are designed for.

“Why are you here?” he asks after a couple seconds of tense silence. He thinks of a better question. “Actually, what's your name?”

“My name is Hank,” the android answers, “and I'm here to check you out. The short spiel is someone thinks you're in need of some help and need someone to make sure you're actually doing the shit you're meant to. I'm here to see if that's true.”

The curse makes Connor blink. He's only ever heard deviants curse, but Hank is certainly not deviant. The way he holds himself, the slightly dead look in his blue eyes, the almost monotonous voice... it screams machine. He's certainly a well developed machine, but a machine all the same. The deviants all had a kind of light about them, until they died.

“Did that catch you off guard?” Hank asks, and when Connor looks up, the android is _smirking_. An honest-to-God, full on _smirk_. “Good.”

“I—” Connor blinks. “I'm afraid I don't... understand. You said someone thinks I need help? I'm quite all right, thank you. I'm in no need of assistance; I can take care of my home well enough alone.”

“Do I look like an AX400 or something?” Hank sneers, sounding bored. “If so, you might need glasses.”

“Do all of the HX models have this kind of an attitude or is it just you?” Connor asks dryly.

“Oh, funny.” Hank looks him over, once, then twice, then thrice. “You really do look just like that deviant hunter. They weren't kidding. Same height and build, hair style and colour, eye shape and colour... everything.”

“I'm well aware,” Connor assures him. “I was here first, though.” The comparison reminds him of an important question. “Was that you talking earlier? With Markus' voice?”

“Sure was,” Hank drawls. “I was told you wouldn't answer the door if it wasn't someone you knew.”

“And _who_ told you that?”

“Don't you wish I would tell you?” Hank crosses his arms, and Connor can't help but think that Hank looks bigger and more intimidating than Luther ever has.

“Tell me everything you can, then?” Connor requests as he sits on the edge of the couch, his voice coming out as small as he feels.

“Sure.” Hank stares at a point on the wall. “'Keep an eye on you; make sure you're eating, drinking, sleeping and all that shit; keep you from slipping back into a horrible, crippling pit of debilitating depression and self-hatred and killing yourself...' those are my directives specific to you.” He looks at Connor's concerned expression. “Quoted directly, thank you.”

“Gavin,” Connor whispers in horror. “It was Gavin wasn't it?”

Hank's silence is more than enough confirmation.

“Of course,” Connor mutters, standing up. “So this is what he was up to.” He looks up at the android. “Well, you had me fooled for a minute there. Thank you for stopping by, but you can go back now and tell him that you gave me a good scare if that's what he wanted—”

“Sit your arse back down,” Hank instructs, his LED flashing yellow for a second as he sets a heavy hand on Connor's shoulder and firmly pushes him back down. “You're going to be a difficult one, aren't you? We're far from done here. It's going to be a couple of days at the very least.”

“ _What?_ ” Connor doesn't mean to shout the word, but Hank doesn't even flinch. “No, you can't—”

“Sure I can,” the android drawls.

“But I don't need—”

“All you've got to do is live your life normally and I'll be gone by Tuesday at the very latest,” Hank assures him. “If you can't prove you're as healthy as you say, then I'm your momma until you get your shit together.”

Connor leans forward, his hands tight in his hair. He doesn't even notice he's pulling it out until a strong hand grasps his wrist and pulls it away. Connor yanks away and stands up, hating the way tears are beginning to build in his eyes.

 _Get it together, Connor_ , he chides himself. _You're not helping your case by branding yourself a cry baby already._

“No need to cry over it,” Hank tells him, crossing his arms again. “If you're as fine as you say, there's nothing to worry about, right?”

“There's got to be some legal thing that says you can't do this,” Connor argues. “Some law or something.”

“You're not the first to say that, and you won't be the last,” Hank sighs. “According to multiple mental health laws, I'm allowed to be here. It used to be that the person in question would come into a clinic for an evaluation, but you humans tend to lie about everything you see as 'shameful.' After androids became a thing, the HX models were created to provide a much more accurate evaluation in the comfort of the subject's normal life. If I'm here, it means whoever requested it had enough evidence to put forth a convincing enough case to do so. So, no, there's no 'legal thing,' as you so eloquently put it. Would you like me to quote each law in full?”

“That won't be necessary,” Connor whispers breathlessly. He feels sick, but forces himself to take a deep breath. “You said only some of your directives. What are the others?”

“Just to observe,” Hank answers easily. “If there are any unhealthy vices you're engaging in—you _know_ the stuff—I'm meant to stop that in it's tracks. Keep track of your behavioural patterns until it's deemed that you don't need anyone. That sort of thing. But hey, it's only until Tuesday, right?”

Connor's tongue feels too big for his mouth, and he can't even speak. Instead, he just nods.

Sunday and Monday. He can make it until then, right? It won't be too hard. It's not like his life is any more unhealthy than any other millennial's, right?

Deep down, he thinks he might either kill himself or Gavin before then. Maybe even both of them.

It occurs to Connor that he's never had a thought like that before. It's frightening.

“Anything I should know about you, kid?” Hank asks as Connor sits back down on the couch. Connor shakes his head. “Any hobbies or habits? Anything that's a huge no-go?” Another shake of the head. “No stupid fun facts? You really got nothing?”

This time, Connor gives no response. Instead, he just picks his laptop and opens it back up. He unlocks it and nestles up in the throw blanket before diving back into his manuscript once more. He ignores the time—01:29—pointedly.

***

_Connor._

_RK800 #313 248 317 - 51._

_The deviant hunter._

_That's what Cyberlife designed him to be. He was everything the deviants feared—analytical, speedy, intelligent, and thorough. Bound not by the morality nor the emotional distress of humanity, the RK800 could either be cold and ruthless, or the most human-like android ever to grace the face of the earth. He had no in between. If not one extreme, he was the other._

_I remember the first time I saw him. It was looking into a mirror, if the mirror was a television screen and the reflection was wearing an android uniform of black, grey and neon blue. It was uncanny, and—admittedly—a bit unsettling. Even so, a part of me couldn't help but be fascinated by the investigative model. It was almost an obsession. I couldn't help myself._

_The first time he saw me, three was a flicker of something like confusion on the android's face for just a second._

***

“You typed 'three' instead of 'there,'” a voice says, far too close to Connor's ear. He slams his laptop shut in panic, unable to stifle the small shriek that tears from his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Connor demands after a couple of seconds, once he's sure that he's not going to die from either the sudden spike of anxiety or embarrassment.

“Your stress levels dropped significantly—no less than twenty-five per cent in the last ten minutes,” Hank answers. “I was curious as to what it was that had you feeling so relaxed. So, you write, then.”

“Well, no, not exactly.” Connor laughs nervously, aware of the flush of red working across the bridge of his nose and into his cheeks. “Not really. It's nothing.”

“Didn't seem like nothing,” Hank replies. “You had this big, dopey smile on your face.”

“Did I?” Connor frowns. Was he smiling? He doesn't think so. He didn't feel himself smiling.

“Yeah, like someone handed you a hundred bucks or some shit,” Hank confirms, scoffing. “Not a bad look on you, honestly. I was starting to think you weren't capable of making a facial expression that wasn't a frown. Don't take this the wrong way, but you might be the most android-like human I've ever met.”

Connor ignores Hank's last statement. “Stop reading over my shoulder. I promise I'm not watching pornography or anything. If that counts as an unhealthy vice or whatever.”

“Do you usually?” Hank asks almost smugly.

“No.” Connor answers with a glare.

“Well, I mean, it's not out of the ordinary for someone in your demographic,” Hank reasons. “Male in his early thirties, lives alone, doesn't seem to have a romantic or sexual relationship...”

“Stop,” Connor says loudly. “I'm not interested in that kind of thing, so don't even worry about it.”

_Not since..._

_Don't think about that._

“If you say so.” Hank pauses, looking Connor over a couple times. “Connor, what have you eaten today?” he asks suddenly.

Connor shrugs. “Nothing today. It's one-thirty in the morning.”

“All right, smartarse. You know what I meant.”

“The answer still stands,” Connor admits quietly. “Nothing.”

“What about yesterday?” Hank presses.

“I don't know. I don't remember.”

“No one likes a liar, Connor.”

Connor sighs in frustration, eyes focusing on the silvery lid of his laptop. “I didn't eat anything.”

Hank makes a sound of disapproval. “So, when was the last time you ate a meal? Or anything, for that matter?”

“Um...” Connor thinks it over. “Maybe Wednesday afternoon?” he offers weakly.

“You do know it's Sunday morning, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then you also know I'm about to tell you to get your arse in that kitchen and make a damn sandwich or something.”

“I'm not hungry,” Connor mumbles. The excuse comes without thought, and he internally curses that it slips with this much ease. He makes no attempt to fix it. “Maybe later.” He goes to open his laptop back up. Hank stops him by holding the lid down.

“ _Connor_.”

“I _know_.” His tone is sharper than he meant it to be.

“You can't skip ten meals. You should have eaten a long time ago.” Hank pauses. He continues when it becomes clear that Connor has no intention off doing what he's been told. “You know, this falls under that 'unhealthy' category...”

“I'm just not hungry, okay?” Connor snaps, looking up and meeting Hank's blue eyes. “I'll eat when I feel like it, and that's _not_ right now.”

Instead of reprimanding him, Hank just steps back and chuckles, the sound low and dark. “There it is.”

Connor suddenly feels incredibly wary. “There what is?”

“Your tipping factor,” Hank answers. “Or your breaking point, whatever you want to call it.

“My... what?” Connor blinks in confusion.

“Every human has one,” Hank explains, leaning against the wall. “Some little trigger that makes their stress level go up like a firework on the fourth of July. The second I even mentioned food, yours starting climbing. The more I press, the higher it goes. Why is that?”

“No reason,” Connor lies. He settles for a semi-truth in his next sentence. “I just don't like when people try to assume control of my life and change how I do things. That's all.”

“You seem to get stressed out quite a bit by just the idea of changing,” Hank observes.

“I have a routine,” Connor replies. He has this answer memorised by now; it's the same one he gives everyone who expresses any kind of concern towards his lifestyle. “I enjoy the simplicity and predictability of it. There's no need to change it.”

Hank just grunts in response, giving a curt nod. “Yeah, all right. Sure. Either way, you still need to eat.” Connor opens his mouth to argue, but Hank just holds up a hand. “No arguments. I'm not saying you have to create a whole five course meal for fucking Gordon Ramsay or whatever, but something with adequate nutrition.”

Connor's right eye twitches, and his stomach tenses at even the _thought_ of eating a five course meal. He doesn't argue, though. Instead, he folds the blanket neatly and sets his laptop on the coffee table. He lets out a slow breath.

“Fine,” he agrees, tone carefully measured. “If it means _so_ much to you, I'll eat something.”

“It means nothing to me,” Hank assures him. “I just figured that since you want me gone so badly...”

“I already don't like you,” Connor decides. He walks towards the kitchen slowly, dismayed when footsteps follow him. He turns to see Hank in the entrance, blocking him into the kitchen. “Yeah, I don't like you.”

Hank just shrugs. “I wasn't made to be liked. I was made to get shit done.”

“Tell me,” Connor begins, opening the fridge and looking through experimentally. “Do all HX model androids swear as much as you do, or is that just the HX800s, or is it just part of _your_ specific non-existent charm?”

“Oh, you think you're so funny, don't you?” Hank sighs. “The HX line pick up speech patterns from the people they're around. Helps with our integration or whatever. I was with a cop for a while. Old police lieutenant with a bad attitude and an even worse alcohol addiction.” He flashes a grin at Connor when he turns back around. “So, if you must know, it's just me. I can stop if it bothers you, though.”

“It's fine,” Connor mutters, waving a hand. “Gavin has a worse mouth than you. The police must take vocabulary lessons from the Navy or something. You're fine.”

“Good. Now, quit stalling and get some food.”

Connor stares at the lunch meat in one of the drawers of the refrigerator before pulling out a bag of freshly sliced turkey and setting it on the counter. A jar of mayonnaise and a bag of provolone cheese follow quickly. He walks to the pantry and pulls out a loaf of multigrain bread easily, but when he sees it all together, knowing what he's expected to do, he feels sick. He can't even being himself to open the loaf of bread.

“Connor, you have to actually _make_ the sandwich,” Hank tells him, sounding exasperated. “It won't make itself. Technology isn't that advanced yet.”

“I can't,” Connor whispers, leaning against the counter. “I'm sorry.”

“Sure you can,” Hank replies. “Open the bread.”

Connor swallows nervously, forcing himself to at least close his fingers around the tie keeping the bread sealed. He untwists it mechanically.

The smell of it is nauseating in the worst way as it hits his nose.

Connor tries to remind himself to breathe through his mouth, but the smell just seems to seep through every pore in his body instead. He knows he's shaking as he pulls out a slice, but he can't make himself stop.

It's been like this as long as he can remember. Why did he think he could change almost three decades of constant food repulsion in a second? The signs were all there; he knew he wasn't going to be able to do it right now.

He can never force himself past this. He just has to wait until his body is desperate enough for food that he can physically choke something down. In the mean time, he'll ignore everyone else's comments about how he probably has an eating disorder or something. They always come. Connor always politely disagrees.

_“I'm not hungry.”_

_“You haven't eaten all day, son. You need to eat. I made dinner.”_

_“But I'm not hungry.”_

_“You have to eat something. The last time I let you skip meals until you were hungry, you passed out. I'm not letting you starve yourself away, Connor. You're going to stop this before it becomes something worse. You're almost ten years old; you are a growing boy. You need nutrition and sustenance.”_

_“Okay. Fine.”_

_“Stop picking at your food and eat it.”_

_“I can't. I can't eat this right now.”_

_“You're really starting to piss me off, Connor. Sit down and eat what I made or find something else to eat. Those are your options right now. Stop being difficult.”_

_“I can't eat. It feels... wrong.”_

_“Wrong.”_

_“I can't explain it. It just is. It feels weird. I don't want to.”_

_“Your brothers are eating just fine. I'm eating just fine. Your mother is eating just fine. The only one making it an issue, as usual, is you. You know what? No. Do you want dinner? Fucking make it yourself, or just go ahead and starve. I'm done with you being so damn picky.”_

Eventually, Hank comes over and plucks the bread from his hands, resealing it and putting it away. He puts away the rest of the food as well, and Connor can't even speak to try to excuse himself.

“Well, whatever happened there, was _not_ 'nothing,'” Hank says after a moment. “It sure as hell wasn't just about control over your life.” He looks Connor over. “That was something else entirely, hmm?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Connor mutters.

“Too bad,” Hank drawls, pulling out a chair at the much-too-large four person table and sitting in it. “We're talking about it. Come on.”

“ _No_ ,” Connor repeats, louder. “I don't want to. You can't make me. Leave me alone.”

“Mmm.” Hank's LED flickers yellow, and Connor isn't sure if he's making a report of the incident or if it's because he's not adhering to his directives.

Connor decides he doesn't really care.

Walking quickly towards the hallway, he is stopped by a hand on his wrist. He shivers at the texture. Nanofluid skin doesn't feel like a human's at all; it's almost viscous and feels slightly tacky, designed to grip things far better than human skin. He doesn't look at Hank.

“Leave me alone,” Connor says again, hating how weak he sounds. “I said I don't want to talk about it.”

“Connor.” Hank's voice is surprisingly gentle. “Sit.”

“I'll eat later,” Connor whispers. “If you're lucky, I might talk to you. Just let me go to sleep. Please. I'm tired; it's been a long day. I should've been in bed a while ago.”

There's no verbal reply, but Hank releases his wrist. Connor rubs at it absently.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Without waiting for a response or saying another word, he walks quickly to his bedroom. He closes the door and presses his forehead against it. He presses his fingers to it, feeling the cool texture of the painted wood, and suddenly he has the urge to slam his fist through it.

Connor steps back immediately, staring down at his hand in horror.

 _No, you don't think like this,_ he reminds himself. _You're not violent. You are not destructive. Forget what Collins and Gavin have told you. You are not those things. You are not robotic. You are not violent. You are not sick, not crazy, not destructive. Put that away._

 _You are human. Pure and simple, good and bad. You are_ human.


	3. Nostalgia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm so sorry for the delay. I've had to rewrite this chapter from scratch over this week (long story short, my old phone conked out as I was transferring drafts and I lost 6k for this work). But it's here now! So enjoy!

Connor hears the door open, the squeak sounding like a gunshot in his ears. He doesn’t move, even when footsteps enter the room. There’s the sound of Hank settling into the chair at the corner of the room, and even from beneath his blankets, Connor can _feel_ that piercing stare.

 _This_ , he thinks bitterly, _is not fair._

He really needs to call Gavin and apologise in hopes that his older brother might accept it and drop this whole mess. The chances of Connor actually picking up the phone and doing it, and Gavin agreeing to do it, are slim-to-none, though. Connor isn’t a fool. Gavin is as predictable as he is, and can be just as petty—if not more—when he wants to be.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Hank drawls.

Connor doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even move.

“I know you’re not asleep, Connor,” Hank presses. “I can tell by your breathing.”

Connor holds his breath in response.

“All right, smartarse,” Hank sighs. “Don’t talk to me, then.”

The silence is painfully loud. It echoes in Connor’s ears, amplified by his breathing and heartbeat. He turns a bit, pulling his duvet tighter around himself.

_God, this wasn’t in the game plan. Not at all._

He lets out a long breath and buries his head beneath his pillow.

_Silence._

Connor could drown in it, if he was able to.

***

Connor turns in his bed, blinking as the sunlight streams through the blinds. He groans and rolls over. He stretches his body out, feeling each joint crack and pop. He sits up and folds back his blanket. He looks towards the chair in the corner of the room, letting out a sigh of relief when he sees that it’s empty.

 _Maybe it_ was _just some freaky fever dream or something._

He stands up and smooths his sheets back out. With a yawn, Connor opens his bedroom door and walks to the living room. It is Sunday, and he’s thankful for that fact. He doesn’t have to work; there are no obligations beyond the ones he’s given himself.

His feet patter softly against the floor as he walks. He sits on the edge of the couch and barely resists the urge to lie down and sleep. After several seconds—or maybe minutes; Connor can’t tell—he stands and walks to the kitchen for a glass of water.

What Connor anticipated doing was to walk to the kitchen, grab a glass from the cabinet, and fill it with filtered water from the refrigerator, and drink it.

What he didn’t expect to see was Hank cooking over the stovetop.

“Oh, my God!” Connor cries, jumping back in shock. “What are you doing?”

“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” Hank drawls, not looking back at him. Connor’s nose twitches in distaste at the nickname, and he feels heat rise in his face. It takes every ounce of self-control he has not to bite back or crumple entirely.

_“Have a nice nap there, Sleeping Beauty? You passed out on us for a second there.”_

Connor shakes his head. “What are you doing?” he repeats, pulling out a chair and sitting down in it.

“I’m cooking,” Hank answers shortly.

“Why?” Connor asks, not bothering to try to conceal the suspicion in his voice. “You can’t eat.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Hank drawls. “It ain’t for me.” He picks up a plate and pours the contents of the shallow pan onto it. Connor squints at it, but Hank is blocking his view.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not—” Connor begins, but Hank cuts him off with ease.

“Yeah, yeah, save the lecture, Reed. I know, you’re ‘not hungry.’ That’s why I made you something light.” Hank turns off the stove before bringing Connor the plate. He sets it down in front of him with a soft sound, and Connor stares.

“Eggs?” he asks, looking up and cocking an eyebrow.

“You didn’t exactly leave me many options, did you?” Hank sounds irritated. It takes Connor by surprise. After a couple of seconds, he realises it’s because Hank isn’t adhering to his directives by letting Connor get away with not eating—it’s not because he cares.

It leaves a sour taste in Connor’s mouth. He swallows it back, albeit reluctantly and bitterly, before replying.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

“Yeah, well, it seems like you don’t usually eat in general, regardless of the time of day,” Hank says, setting a fork down to his right with a soft _ting_. Connor picks it up and sets it on his left. “Left-handed?”

Connor nods. “Yes.”

“Huh.” Hank frowns, clearly wondering how he missed out on that detail, and Connor can’t help the small smile that crosses his lips. He doesn’t move to pick up the fork again, though. “Come on, kid. Eat.”

“Kid,” Connor repeats with a scoff. He folds his hands in his lap. “You do realise I’m thirty-one, correct? I’m not a child.”

“Eh, it’s a term of endearment,” Hank mutters, waving a hand and leaning against the counter. “Don’t take it personal.”

“A term of endearment, you say?” Connor teases, trying to play it off, but Hank just rolls his eyes.

“You know what I fucking meant, you little shit, so don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Doesn’t seem like I have to,” Connor replies innocently.

Hank’s LED goes yellow for a second as he stares at Connor with an unreadable expression. Connor stares back, impassive, and Hank narrows his eyes.

“Fucking hell,” Hank mutters, shaking his head. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”

“No, but it seems like you do,” Connor replies with a smile.

“Oh, funny.” Hank crosses his arms. “You know I don’t. You _wish._ ” He smirks. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re trying to do, Connor.”

“What is it I’m trying to do?” Connor asks. He’s not entirely sure what it is he’s doing, if he’s honest, but he’s not about to admit it.

“You’re trying to spook me out of this assignment, and I hate to break it to you, but it’s not going to work.” Hank scoffs. “That kind of thing only works on humans and deviants.”

“And you’re not deviant.”

“Damn right I’m not!” Hank’s LED flickers red for a fraction of a second before smoothing out back to blue. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here. I’d be dead in a recycling facility somewhere or hiding in fucking Canada. Certainly not with a brat like you.”

_“Be a good boy for us, Connor. No one likes a brat.”_

“Hey!” Connor stands, glaring. “I’m not a brat.”

“Aren’t you?” Hank sneers. He steps forward until he’s only a couple of inches from Connor’s face. Connor instinctively goes to step back, tripping over his chair. He catches himself on the edge of the table and pulls himself back up. He stands and glares, meeting Hank’s eyes defiantly. “Seems pretty fucking bratty to me to refuse to eat even after someone went through all the trouble to make you breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Connor repeats, practically spitting the words.

“Like I said,” Hank says smugly, “a brat. Can’t even take a bite to be polite.”

Connor picks up the fork, gritting his teeth as he stabs a piece of egg. He brings it to his lips and bites harshly. He throws the fork down and swallows as quickly as he can manage, not even tasting it.

“Happy?” he snarls.

Hank just laughs, bringing his hand up to Connor’s forehead and shoving him backwards. The human stumbles, the backs of his knees hitting the chair, and he sits.

“I fucking knew I could get you to eat,” Hank says. “Look at that—you managed to choke down a bite despite all your bullshit about ‘not being hungry’ purely to prove me wrong. Who the hell saw that coming?”

Connor’s eyes widen when he realises that Hank took what he thought Connor was doing and twisted it around.

_“That kind of thing only works on humans and deviants.”_

_Damn,_  Connor thinks with a frown. _This android is good._

“So, what, then?” Hank pulls out a chair and sits on it. “All I’ve got to do is call you a brat and say you won’t do something if I want you to do shit?”

Connor shivers. “No. Please… don’t call me that. Please.”

Hank studies his face for a moment, LED yellow for a handful of seconds. Finally, he nods.

“Anything you want to talk about?” he asks. “You said you’d talk to me this morning.”

“I believe my exact phrasing was ‘ _Maybe_ I’ll talk to you come morning, _if_ you’re lucky,’” Connor argues.

“I think I’ve been pretty lucky today,” Hank replies smoothly.

Connor narrows his eyes, thinking. He sighs and nods.

“Yeah, okay. Fine. Whatever. Ask away. Maybe I’ll answer. Maybe not. Depends on the question.”

“Maybe?”

“Possibly.”

“Smartarse.”

Connor just smiles tiredly in response.

“All right.” Hank leans forward a bit, and Connor mirrors the movement. “So, you have any friends?”

“A couple,” Connor answers.

“You want to tell me about them?”

“Um, if you even… care, I guess I could.” Connor presses his lips together. “There’s Markus—he’s a graphic designer and a good friend of mine. The painting in the living room—the black and white one with the cityscape—was a gift from him. We met several years ago, at… work. He was doing the cover art for someone’s manuscript, and I complimented his work, and we started talking, after a bit. We became friends; just sort of happened.

“Then there’s Kara.” Connor smiles. “She’s a children’s advocate and a very sweet person. Her husband, as well—Luther—and they have a daughter named Alice. I ran into Kara by accident and spilled coffee on her. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, but, uh, I’m just glad it ended up with us being friends.

“And Nines.” Connor doesn’t elaborate, and he sees Hank’s LED go yellow as he presumably searches up each person.

“Nines,” he repeats after a moment. “I got nothing on that one.”

“It’s better that way,” Connor assures him. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing anything about him.”

Hank cocks an eyebrow suspiciously, but—thankfully—he doesn’t press.

“What about your brothers?” he asks. “What kind of a relationship do you have with them?”

Connor winces. “Not a good one. We don’t need to talk about that. Just… it’s not a good one.”

“I could’ve fucking guessed that one,” Hank mutters. “Something happen, or have you just always hated each other?”

“I don’t hate them!” Connor snaps. “Why does everyone think that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Gavin is just mean,” he starts. “Always has been, always will be. He has a hair-trigger temper and packs a nasty punch. Stay out of his way, and you’ll be fine—I learned that lesson from the beginning. In a way, he fits perfectly into the jerk-cop stereotype.

“Collins is just… Collins. He’s my twin, but he may as well be a stranger. He always got along better with Gavin then he did with me. He’s the exact opposite of Gavin, in some ways. He’s colder, more level. He’s a news reporter for Channel 16, but… I don’t know.

“And Elijah is out there doing whatever it is he does,” Connor finishes lamely. “I don’t really talk to him much, if at all. He’s Gavin’s half-brother, and by the time Collins and I moved in, he was pretty much out of the house.”

“Right, you’re adopted,” Hank says, but it sounds like he’s speaking more to himself than to Connor. Connor nods anyway, not sure how to reply.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, looking down. “Unfortunately.”

“I can’t help but notice something, Connor,” Hank says after a moment. Connor looks back up, confused. “You speak very impersonally about your ‘friends’ and family. You’re telling me straight facts—how you met, what they do, what they’re like. You’re not telling me any kind of stories.”

“What, do you want one?” Connor snorts. “I didn’t think you cared.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why am I going to bother telling you anything?” Connor forces a nonchalant shrug. “If you don’t care, then there’s not any point in getting personal about it.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence. Connor looks down at the now-cold eggs in front of him, picking up his fork and poking them a couple of times. Hank stands, snatching up the plate and dumping them in the trash before setting the plate and fork in the sink. Connor stands as well, ready to protest, but he knows it’s futile. He just sinks back into his seat and crosses his arms as he fumes silently.

_What a waste of food._

“This Nines character… who is he?”

The question catches Connor off guard. “He’s no one. Don’t worry about it.”

“Is he your boyfriend?”

Connor rolls his eyes. “No, he’s not my boyfriend, contrary to popular belief.”

“Best friend?”

“Hardly.”

“Then who is he?”

“He’s just a friend.”

Hank smirks. “You know who else says ‘he’s just a friend’ when asked about boys?”

“Who?” Connor asks warily.

“Teenage girls being interrogated by their dads about their secret boyfriends.”

“Oh, funny. Really funny. Whatever it is you’re implying here, it had better be a joke.”

Hank just snickers in response.

Connor stands and pushes in his chair. “Well, if that’s all, I have a phone call to make.”

“To your boyfriend?” Hank asks.

“I’m going to punch you in the Thirium pump if you don’t _shut up._ ”

“All right, all right.” Hank raises his hands. “Make your call, kid. I’m not stopping you.”

Connor exhales indignantly before exiting the kitchen. He walks to his bedroom and closes the door, grabbing his phone from the desk and sinking to the floor. He opens his messages and sends two words to his current least-favourite person.

From Connor Reed (07:23)  
_You’re horrible._

From: Nines (07:24)  
_Good morning to you too, Connor._

From: Connor Reed (07:24)  
_Do you have any idea what you’ve done? At all?_

From: Nines (07:26)  
_As a matter of fact, I do have an idea. An extensive idea. Gavin called me in hopes of finding out something about you to help his case for the assignment of an HX800 android. I gave him what he needed, and I’m assuming you’re now unhappy about it. Am I correct?_

“Unhappy” is a gross understatement.

From: Connor Reed (07:26)  
_“Unhappy” is putting it very lightly. Why would you even do something like this?_

From: Nines (07:26)  
_Call me._

Connor hesitates, but after a moment, he does. Nines picks up immediately.

“Connor,” he greets, some warmth in his voice. “How are you?”

“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” Connor suggests. “There’s no need for that. You know exactly how I am and why.”

Nines sighs. “You asked why, and I’ll tell you.”

“I’d appreciate that a lot,” Connor replies.

“I gave Gavin what he needed not out of any dislike for you,” Nines assures him. “On the contrary, I appreciate your company and personality more so than that of any other person I’ve met. So, know that my actions were not to target you. They were not out of a business-motivated mindset, either, despite what I said yesterday about you having to pay. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Then why?” Connor asks, his voice strained.

“Because I think it’s beneficial for you,” Nines answers without hesitation. “I don’t believe that you’re as all right as you say you are, and that this could help you in many different ways.”

“But—”

“I did not say anything about the incident in August, Connor.” Nines’ voice is hushed and calm, and Connor’s words die in his throat. “I wouldn’t do that to you, and you know it.”

“Th-thank you,” Connor whispers.

“However,” Nines continues, not acknowledging Connor’s words, “I think it would be in your best interest to give this a chance. I believe this HX800 could help you, if you let it.”

“You don’t understand,” Connor begs. “I’m fine, Nines. I swear it.”

“As much as I’d like to believe you, I’ve been keeping an eye on you, and your actions do not support your claims. I’ve seen how you look behind you when you’re in public. You’re horribly paranoid, and that is understandable to an extent. However, you’ve always been a person of extremes, and we both know that fact. Would you believe me if I said Markus and Kara actually contacted me a couple of days ago to see if I knew how you were doing?”

“K-Kara and Mark—and Markus?” Connor repeats weakly. “I thought they didn’t—”

“Oh, they still don’t like me, no,” Nines answers, laughing. “They made that fact very clear, but their concern for your safety overrides their distaste for me any day.”

“And you told them…?”

“Simply that you were still alive and working, though significantly less social in these past several months for personal reasons. I encouraged them to reach out to you. I would assume they are debating the best possible way to do so.”

“Okay.” Connor hesitates, thinking. “Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Nines sounds surprised.

“I don’t know. I just am. I feel bad.”

“Well, don’t,” Nines tells him gently. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I—” Connor sighs. “Thank you, Nines. I appreciate your attempt to help, but this isn’t going to fix anything. You have to know that.”

“It could,” Nines argues, his voice hushed. “You don’t know otherwise. I really think you should give it a couple of days at the very least. I assure you, my intent was never and will never be to harm you. My reasoning was not to punish you for any wrongdoing, but simply because I have your best interests in mind. Someone needs to, because you certainly don’t.”

“Mmm.” Connor sighs heavily. “Do you… would you mind if I stopped by today?”

“Oh, mercy me, what _ever_ could have triggered a desire for a visit after months of radio silence?” Nines drawls. “As much as I’d love to have you, dear, I’m afraid I won’t be in until tonight.”

“May I drop in tonight, then?” Connor asks, his voice small.

“Of course,” Nines assures him warmly. “If you so desire, you may. My door is always open to you, with the exception of when it’s not.”

Connor smiles. “Thank you.”

“Any time, Connor.” Nines pauses. “I mean it, Connor. Just give this a chance to work, okay? If not for yourself, then for me?”

Connor is silent for a moment. Finally, he lets out a long breath.

“For you,” he mumbles. “Just know that I don’t agree with your methods of taking care of your friends.”

“Perhaps it is not ‘friends,’” Nines tells him quietly, “but ‘friend.’ Have a wonderful day, Connor. I look forward to seeing you tonight. Do try to leave the HX800 at home, though, if it will let you.”

With that, the line clicks dead.

***

The rest of the morning passes in a blur. Connor showers and dresses, attempting in vain to fix his hair for some time before finally telling himself that it looks fine and somewhat fashionable. He doesn’t eat lunch, despite Hank’s best attempts to guilt and trick him into doing so. Instead, he writes, in a notebook instead of on his laptop. This entry is for his eyes only, and one he writes with great reluctance.

***

_“Do not weep, deviant hunter. It will all be over in a bit. I’m being merciful.”_

_It was futile to try to escape. His hold on my head, fingers laced in my hair as he forced me to my knees, was simply too strong._

_I didn’t understand what was happening as he raised a gun and placed the barrel against my forehead._

_I still don’t, truthfully. It was only the first time of many more to come._

_So many people would mistake me for the RK800 during the winter revolution of 2038. It was a problem I never expected to have. The people of Detroit, the ones I grew up alongside, were already incredibly high-strung. Every android was a deviant, but some humans were as well._

_It’s no secret that androids are required to be identifiable and distinguishable from humans by law. For the longest time, it was simple. If you saw the person a model of android was based on, you glanced at their outfit and right temple. If you saw the telltale neon blue glow of a Cyberlife issued uniform, or of an LED, then you knew it was an android and looked the other way. If not, they were human, and you offered a smile or polite nod, same as you would with anyone else._

_Then the deviation epidemic began, and everything changed._

_Neighbourhoods were plunged into fear. The neon blue was no longer a comforting sign of a thriving economy, nor a reminder of impending unemployment and homelessness. Instead, it was an omen of death and doom. Most deviants removed the biocomponents that were visible to the eye, and they disguised themselves in human clothing. They became masters of disguise because their lives depended on it._

_No one was safe from the anger and fear of the deviants, who would kill without a second thought if you hesitated._

_Or so they said._

_The amount of times someone mistook Markus for the RK200 deviant leader of the same name, or Kara for a deviated AX400, or me for the RK800… it began to rock our confidence in our ability to just_ _live._ _We feared going much of anywhere; we were sure someone would see us, panic, and kill us. When the Army was authorised to begin handling the situation, Markus, Kara and I refused to go out much at all, and when it was unavoidable, we made sure to have proper identification and protection._

_Not that it mattered at times._

_I’m still incredibly curious about the legality of Cyberlife’s android designs, but I am merely a writer, an editor, and in no place to question such things._

_I began to understand the deviants and their fear of us. I couldn’t trust anyone; they certainly had no reason to._

_And even now, a part of me wishes we had lost the fight. There would have been no harm in allowing androids to live as they wished. We could have lived in peace, and yet, they were slaughtered senselessly. Pointlessly. Brutally. Mechanically._

_Humanity seemed more like unempathetic, unemotional machines than the androids they shot down, one by one by one._

_We are coming up on a year after the revolution. A year after the android Markus was killed and the remainder of the deviants died swiftly after, be it due to damage or self-inflicted destruction. A year after blue blood stained white snow and once-innocent hands._

_A year later, and I am still drowning in it._

***

Connor sets his pencil down and closes the notebook. He clutches it close to his chest and lets out a soft sigh. A part of the tension that resided somewhere in his gut is gone, leaving him feeling light and airy.

He even manages to eat almost half of the peanut butter sandwich Hank offers him, with little issue. He isn’t completely happy with it, and Hank’s shit-eating grin makes him regret it in part, but it’s the first significant amount of food he’s had in days and it’s decent.

“I’m going out,” Connor says between sips of water.

“When?” Hank drawls.

“Tonight,” Connor answers, setting the glass down. He picks up his plate and carries it to the sink before tossing the uneaten half of the sandwich in the bin and rinsing off the plate. He puts it in the dishwasher and reorganises the dishes that were—rather obviously—put in by Hank.

“Got yourself a date?”

“Ha,” Connor says dryly. He closes the dishwasher and rinses the crumbs from the sink. “You know,” he begins, “if I didn’t know better, I might say you’re jealous.”

“Of what?” Hank sneers. “Of someone spending time with you?”

“Of—”

“Reed, I don’t even _know_ you,” Hank interrupts. “You’re an assignment to me and little else. I don’t give a flying fuck who you hang out with or date or sleep with or anything else. I have my orders regarding you. Outside of those, I couldn’t care less what you’re doing. I feel jack shit for or about you. I do what I was made to do and nothing else. Got it?”

Connor’s throat closes up at the harsh words. He blinks and swallows.

“Got it,” he replies roughly.

“Good.” Hank pauses. “Where are you going?”

“To visit a friend.”

“The one you were on the phone with earlier?”

Connor narrows his eyes. “Maybe.”

“The mysterious Nines.”

“What?”

“I could hear you,” Hank explains.

“Because you couldn’t help it or because you were listening in?” Connor asks, not bothering to even try concealing his annoyance.

“A bit of both,” Hank admits, flashing him a little—yet incredibly irritating—grin.

Connor glares, and Hank just sighs.

“Look, Connor, I’m not here to ruin your life—”

“Really?” Connor interrupts with a sneer. “Because regardless of whether you ‘are here to’ or not, you’re doing a good job at it! You came into _my_ house, in the middle of the night, and upturned _my_ life! You have no regard for my scheduling or for my preferences, you’re rude and pushy, and for what? Because it’s your purpose? Because you like it? I don’t really care why. I just want you to stop. You said your model was designed to observe clientele in _their_ environment. Do that. It’s an order.”

Hank is silent, but his LED is solid blue.

He isn’t bothered at all.

Perhaps that observation is what triggers Connor’s next move.

He slams the heel of his palm into Hank’s Thirium pump, causing the android’s knees to buckle and his LED to flare yellow. Hank grunts as he hits the ground. Connor takes a knee beside him, waiting until Hank meets meets his eyes.

“You can’t tell me how I’m meant to live my life,” Connor says seriously, surprised by by how hollow, yet steady, his voice is despite the hot and dangerous anger filling his bones. “I do not _care_ about your directives. I draw the line here. I’ve lived this long, haven’t I? If I die, it’s by my own hand. It wasn’t your fault; you did what you could, et cetera, et cetera. We’re done, and you are dismissed.”

He stands, brushing off his trousers even though they’re spotless. Without another word, he grabs his keys and wallet from the table by the door and exits the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

***

The cab ride is silent.

Connor sits in the back of the driverless cab, leg bouncing against the black car mat over the floor. He stares out the window and watches the buildings whip past in blurs of deteriorating brick and neon signs. People walk by on the pavement, and everywhere he looks, that familiar soft blue glow bathing artificial skin.

He wonders, vaguely, what Hank made of his outburst.

It also occurs to him that he doesn’t really care.

The cab stops outside a bar, but Connor doesn’t go inside after he climbs out. Instead, he wanders through the city streets without aim, staring at the pavement more than anything else.

As he’s passing a small law firm, his phone rings. He pulls it out and checks the contact—because, _boy_ , did he learn his lesson about not doing so _._

It’s Markus.

Connor sighs and accepts the call, stopping and leaning against the brick wall.

“Hello, Markus,” Connor greets tiredly. “How are you?”

“I told you!” Connor blinks at the sound of Kara’s voice, though it sounds distant. “I told you he would answer like nothing ever happened!”

“Kara, please,” Markus sighs, his voice nearer, but muffled as if he has his hand over the phone. “We talked about this.”

“Hello, Markus,” Connor repeats dryly.

“Hello, Connor,” Markus returns, his voice cool and warm all at once. Connor can’t help but smile at it. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Hi, Connor!” Kara’s voice calls, bright despite how faint it is.

“I don’t know if you can hear her from _across_ _the room_ ,” Markus says, putting an emphasis on the last three words that Connor assumes is for Kara, “but Kara says hi.”

“I can hear her,” Connor confirms. “Tell her I said hi back.”

“She can hear you,” Markus replies.

“Oh!” Connor freezes, unsure of what to say. “Hi, Kara.”

“Luther and Alice say hi as well!” Kara calls.

“Tell them hi back for me,” Connor requests.

“Of course,” Kara replies. Markus clears his throat, and then there’s the sound of bodies shuffling. When Kara speaks next, her voice is much clearer. “Now, how have you been?”

“We’ve missed you,” Markus cuts in.

“Yeah… sorry,” Connor mumbles, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t…” He traces a crack in the pavement with the toe of his shoe. “I meant to call, but…”

“It’s okay,” Markus tells him. “Things happen. I meant to reach out sooner, and so did Kara—”

“I can speak for myself, Markus.”

“—and we’re sorry,” Markus finishes, ignoring Kara.

“Yeah,” Kara agrees. “I’m sorry. We should have realised something was wrong after a couple of weeks, but I guess we kind of just thought you were taking a break or whatever it is you do when you drop off social media without a word. And then—I feel so bad, but I assumed you’d, I don’t know, _call_ or even just text… if it got this…” She trails off, and Connor waits for her to continue, but she never does.

“What?” Connor clears his throat. “Pardon?”

“Gavin called—” Kara begins, but Connor cuts her off.

“Say no more,” he sighs. “Say no more, please.”

“Are you okay?” Markus asks.

Connor hesitates, debating whether to tell them about Hank, but finally decides against it.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully, “but there’s nothing wrong with me. I promise. I’m trying my best, guys. I swear it.”

“Just promise us you’re safe,” Kara begs.

“From… everything,” Markus adds.

Connor gets the feeling he wanted to say “from yourself” but stopped himself at the last second.

“I am,” he assures them. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

“We just wanted to make sure,” Markus tells him softly.

“And I appreciate that,” Connor repeats, keeping his tone light.

“Could we—” Kara pauses for a second, seeming to think her words over. “Would you be all right with going out and getting lunch together tomorrow? Just us three? Like old times.”

“Like old times,” Connor echoes hollowly.

“Like old times,” Markus confirms.

 _“Like old times” is gone,_  Connor thinks, _and it’s never coming back. But you wouldn’t know that, would you?_

“Yeah,” he says aloud. “Of course. At the usual?”

“At the usual,” Markus agrees. “How’s noon?”

“Awesome,” Connor replies. “I’ll see you both then. I’m looking forward to it. It’s been too long.”

“You do know…” Markus hesitates a second. “You can talk to us, Connor. About literally anything. No matter what.”

Kara makes a sound of agreement.

“Yeah,” Connor whispers. “I know that. Same to you guys.”

“Just stay safe,” Kara tells him gently. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Well, we’ll let you go,” Markus says. There’s something Connor can’t pinpoint masked beneath the polite tone of his voice. “Have an excellent rest of your night. We’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”

“Sounds good.” Connor replies, a smile crossing his face even though he knows they can’t see it. “You guys have fun doing whatever you’re doing. Tell everyone I said hi, would you?”

“Of course,” Markus replies. “Good night, Connor. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Conn!” Kara says, her voice bright. “It was wonderful to talk to you again!”

“You too, Kara,” Connor returns. “Bye!”

“Bye!”

The line clicks dead, and Connor slumps against the building tiredly.

He didn’t expect to have that conversation so soon, or so… awkwardly.

 _But,_  he reminds himself, _it is over. You survived the attack of the well-meaning friends. Whatever happens during lunch tomorrow happens. You have more important things to worry about._

He messages for another cab and shoves his phone back into his pocket. Within a few minutes, his phone buzzes as as a cab pulls up, and he climbs in, typing an address in. The cab sets off and he sits down in one of the seats.

Connor’s fingers trace over the glass screen of his phone idly as he looks out the window. It’s been at least several months since he’s seen Nines face to face, and it isn’t exactly something he’s looking forward to—not entirely. Something always goes wrong during these visits.

A feeling of cold dread fills him as the cab stops outside a small shop in downtown Detroit after about fifteen minutes. He presses his card to the  designated area and climbs out onto the street, watching as the cab drives away. The sun is setting, hiding behind the manufactured city skyline, but Connor is confident he could find this place blindfolded and with his legs tied by this point.

He pushes open the door, the sound of a synthesised bell ringing to alert of his presence. His eyes skim over the bookshelves for only a second before settling on the teenage girl behind the counter.

 _Great,_ Connor thinks, frowning a bit. _A new one. Again_.

“Hi,” the girl greets, too brightly. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

“Hi,” Connor returns, trying—and failing—to keep his voice level. “I was wondering… I’m here to see Nines?”

The girl’s smile never wavers, even as she adjusts her over-large glasses. “I’m sorry? You’re here to see who?”

“Nines,” Connor repeats, a bit annoyed.

“I’m afraid I don’t know a Nines.”

Connor leans forward on the counter. “Really?”

“Really.”

He pushes off, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “This happens every single time he gets gets a new person. Every time.”

The girl just smiles knowingly. She picks up a stack of books and steps out from behind the counter. She walks over to a shelf and begins to put them away.

“Come on,” Connor pleads, following her. “Please?”

“I don’t know your guy,” the girl tells him. She pushes her hair back, the red ringlets falling back immediately.

“He put you up to this, didn’t he?” Connor asks. “Come on, I can’t get back without the key. Why won’t you tell him I’m here?”

The girl doesn’t answer, but a familiar voice does.

“Have you, perhaps, entertained the idea that I already know?”

Connor turns, taking in a sight that sure wasn’t on the counter when he got here. His long legs are crossed prim and proper at the ankles, his white coat spotless and unwrinkled, his arms braced against the surface of the counter, his brown eyes warm and dark hair perfect, his mouth turned up in a small smile.

Nines.


	4. I Don’t Know What To Say

“Hello, Connor,” Nines greets, sliding off the counter.

“You’re the worst,” Connor whispers, unable to keep from smiling. “God, I hate you.”

“Is that so?” Nines walks over to a bookshelf and selects a novel, looking over the cover before replacing it. “I seem to recall _you_ being the one who wished to see me.” He glances up at the girl. “Thank you for your help, River. I will take care of the rest. Have an excellent rest of your night, dearest.”

“Anytime, sir,” she replies. Nines reaches behind the counter and picks up a purse, handing it to River. She accepts it with a smile. “Have a nice night.”

“She seems nice,” Connor says as River exits the building and hails a cab.

Nines shrugs. “For a college student, I suppose so.” He turns back to Connor, looking him over. “My, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“Why change perfection?” Connor asks cheekily.

Nines cocks an eyebrow in question before scrutinising  Connor with narrowed eyes.

“I fear you and I have different views of ‘perfection,’” Nines replies dryly.

Connor stares at him, and Nines stares back, and finally, a smile crosses Nines’ face as he pulls Connor in for a hug.

“God, it’s so good to see you,” Nines whispers as he pulls back. “You really ought to drop in more often.”

“I’ll try,” Connor assures him. “How’s business?”

“Same old, same old,” Nines answers with a shrug. “The occasional police investigation here, a couple crazies there. How’s the book?”

“It’s moving along,” Connor replies carefully, “slowly but surely.”

“And you, Connor?” Nines asks, his tone gentle.

“I’m… fine.” Connor leans against the counter, trying to seem casual. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Nines answers shortly. “Have you talked to anyone like I suggested?”

“Yeah,” Connor lies. “Of course I have.”

Nines just crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, his lips turning down in a disapproving frown.

“Okay, no, I haven’t,” Connor admits, “but I don’t think I need it, all right? I appreciate the concern, really, but I think you’re overreacting _just_ a bit.”

“Oh, am I?” Nines gives a barking laugh. He grabs Connor’s right arm and turns it over, pushing up his sleeve before Connor can say or do anything. Several small, circular bruises discolour the pale skin along the inside of his wrist. “What’s this, then?”

Connor yanks his arm back, pulling his sleeve back down. “Nothing. I probably just hit it on something. You know how clumsy I can be.”

“Excuse my language, but that is absolute _bullshit_ ,” Nines sighs. “Come on, Connor. The pattern doesn’t make sense with that answer.”

Connor is silent for several seconds. Finally, he nods.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Fine. I did it, but I didn’t mean to, okay? I was messing with one of Alice’s hair ties, one of the ones with beads, that she left while I was visiting with Kara and Luther a while ago. I was thinking and snapping it against my wrist. It wasn’t deliberately, so calm down.”

“Was that _so_ hard to say?” Nines asks. “Did you really have to lie about it?”

Connor’s mouth twitches, but he says nothing.

_“Say it, Connor. Come on. Be good.”_

_“This isn’t funny. Please. Please, stop.”_

“Connor.”

_“Have we got a deviant on our hands?”_

_“I’m human! Stop it!”_

_“No human is this fucking pitiful.”_

“Connor. Are you with me?”

_“Fine! I’m an android, I’m a deviant—whatever you want me to be! Just please put away the gun!”_

_“There. Was that so hard?”_

“Come on, Connor. Please say something.”

Connor forces his eyes open, blinking as he tries to remember when he closed them. Nines is watching him with concern.

“I’m…” Connor presses his lips together. He takes in a deep breath and rubs his face. “Shit, I’m sorry. I spaced for a second there.”

“Does that happen often?” Nines asks, his voice soft.

“I don’t know.” Connor forces a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t worry.”

“What was it?”

“I—” Connor stops himself, swallowing. “Nothing. I’m telling you, it was nothing. Just had a moment where my brain left my body or something. It happens.”

Nines gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t believe it, but he doesn’t push.

Connor doesn’t know if he’s grateful for that fact or not.

“Why did you really come tonight?” Nines asks after a few seconds of tense silence. He holds up his hand as Connor opens his mouth. “Do _not_ lie to me again tonight, or we’re going to have some _very_ unpleasant problems. You have been warned.”

“I wanted to see you,” Connor says weakly.

Nines scoffs. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“Is that so wrong?”

Nines sits on a table, leaning forward and bracing his elbows against his knees. “See, I don’t get it, Connor. You can’t tell me you’re ‘absolutely fine’ when the one-hundred-eighty degree change in you is obvious to anyone with half a brain. You insult me, you know. You insult me, Kara _and_ Markus by expecting us to fall for your flimsy façade, like we’re either idiots or don’t know you at all.” He sighs. “You’re not the same. No one expects you to be, but I think _you_ do. I think you expect yourself to be perfectly fine all the time, because you’re a perfectionist. You always have been, but what you _haven’t_ always been is isolated and you certainly have never been a liar. And yet… you’ve lied to me seven times since you walked through that door. Don’t give me all this ‘I’m fine; nothing is wrong’ crap.”

“It’s not a lie—I’m fine!” Connor argues.

“And that’s eight and nine.” Nines taps his fingers against his jaw and gives a tight, fake smile. “Get to ten. I _dare_ you to stick around long enough to see what happens if you manage that.”

Connor barely bites back the words “I don’t care.” He does care. He cares a lot and they both know it.

“Smart choice.” Nines runs a hand through his hair. “I think… before we continue any further, I want you to tell me one thing that’s bothering you. If you can’t be _that_ honest, then I have no interest in talking to you anymore tonight and you can leave.”

Connor grinds his teeth together.

This isn’t _fair._ It’s a direct attack; Nines’ way of manipulating him into giving him something. It has to be.

Right?

 _God_. Connor studies Nines’ impassive expression. He can’t tell if he’s missing something or if there’s legitimately nothing to read into.

It’s confusing, it’s frustrating, and honestly, he can’t even remember why he came in the first place. Anger and frustration are quickly mixing into a dangerous concoction within his veins, a Molotov cocktail ready to shatter and explode.

“Well?” Nines presses, his tone impatient.

“Forget it,” Connor snaps. He pushes off the counter, straightening his shirt. “Okay, if you’re going to be like that, then I’m going. Next time, if you’d rather I not visit, just tell me instead of being passive-aggressive, you coward.”

Nines’ blue eyes flash dangerously. “Me, a coward? How _dare_ you. Maybe I just hoped you held me in high enough regard to not try and _lie_ about every little thing when you _know_ I know the truth! Is it too much to ask for you to respect me a bit? I’ve been your friend for how long?”

“I don’t know,” Connor replies coldly. “We’ve _known_ each other for three years. Now, how many of those have you been _pretending_ to tolerate me, been you manipulating me?”

Nines’ eyes widen and his jaw drops in shock. Connor feels a dim, smoking satisfaction when the information broker covers his mouth and looks away for a second.

Finally, Nines walks to the door and opens it, holding it for Connor. He doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t have to. Connor exits the building quickly, not even looking at Nines. As soon as Connor is on the other side of the frame, Nines shuts it and flips the sign to “closed” before locking the door and walking into the back room.

Connor calls for a cab and climbs in, folding his legs on the seat as it begins to drive.

He can’t help but think that it’s probably a good thing he isn’t driving, because he has a strong urge to ram it into the nearest building while going seventy miles an hour.

***

Connor unlocks the front door of his house, idling on the porch and watching as a WK500 android works on the streetlamp by the street. Someone must have finally called it in.

He turns and steps inside the entranceway after a few moments, closing and locking the door behind him. He sets his wallet on the table by the door before kicking off his shoes and walking to the living area.

Hank is sitting on the couch, hands folded in his lap and blue eyes unfocused. Connor freezes for only a second, cursing the fact that he forgot about _this_ problem in lieu of his other ones, before running for the front door. He tries to get it open, but as he’s fumbling with the lock, a strong hand grasps his shoulder and pulls him back.

“Ah, welcome back, _Connor_ ,” Hank greets, practically sneering Connor’s name as he slides between the human and the door. “Have a nice visit?”

Connor steps back, putting his hands up passively as he observes the blue ring cycling at Hank’s temple. He doesn’t think he can speak right now, but Hank doesn’t seem to want him to, anyway.

“Come on, kid.” Hank directs him back towards the couch, and Connor casts a desperate glance back at the door. “Fucking try to run off again and I promise you won’t like it. You won’t get further than the front door. You’re lucky I could hear you making your plans on the phone and that I knew where you were, ‘cause otherwise I would’ve had to call the police.”

Connor wonders how Hank knew he actually went where he was planning to, but he still doesn’t say anything. He grunts when Hank forces him to sit.

“What, have you gone nonverbal?” Hank snaps his fingers in front of Connor’s face. “You were talking such a big game earlier.”

Connor opens his mouth, but his throat won’t let the words come out, so he just closes it again and looks down. He crosses his arms and glares at a spot on the carpet.

“Fine, be like that,” Hank sighs, a little calmer, “but you’ve got to talk to me sometime soon. You know that, right?”

Connor shrugs.

“And you’re going to have to eat dinner.”

He shakes his head.

“Yes…”

Again.

“Connor, it’s not up for a goddamn debate.” Hank sighs and sits beside him, and Connor scoots as far away as he can before curling up against the arm. Hank’s LED flares a bright red for a second, and then it’s a solid yellow. When he speaks next, his tone is entirely different, no trace of frustration left in it. “Look, I don’t know what happened between when you left and now, but are you all right?”

_Yes. Just say it. Yes. It isn’t that hard, Reed. One damn syllable. Yes. You know how to say it._

But the words won’t come, and when Connor tries to nod, he ends up shaking his head instead. He’s lied enough today.

To his surprise, Hank has no quip, no sarcastic comment or smug remark. Instead, he leans forward, trying to catch his eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

Connor shakes his head again, but he knows he doesn’t mean a simple “no.” There are so many things he wants to say hidden in that gesture.

_I do, but I don’t want to admit Nines is right._

_I do, but I don’t want someone else knowing how broken I am. The fact that I know is already too much to bear._

_I do, but I don’t know how to word what I’m thinking and feeling. Even if I did, no one would understand._

_I don’t, because it’s easier to just ignore everything than feel it._

_I’m tired of everyone comparing me to everyone and everything around me, but maybe that’s just because they’re right._

_I would rather die than expose myself to someone else, to let them in my head, and that’s exactly what’s happening, isn’t it?_

_I don’t know what I’m feeling and it’s scaring me._

_I’m so tired of being the odd one out, of never understanding everything like everyone else does. Even you seem to get it better than I do and you aren’t even_ human.

_I’m scared. I’m so scared… of myself. I’m scared of you, of Kara, of Markus, of Nines, of Gavin, of Collins, of everyone. I’m afraid of everyone and everything and I hate it._

_Mostly I’m scared of what I’m becoming and I don’t know how to stop it_.

“Connor.” Hank says his name quietly, gently. It is nothing like the sneer of earlier. “Would you look at me for just a second?”

Connor gives no form of acknowledgement this time.

“Connor, are you listening? Can you hear me, son?”

Connor tries to nod, but his muscles suddenly feel frozen. He can’t make himself respond anymore than he can walk to and swim across Lake Michigan. He settles for blinking several times in succession, hoping that Hank might get the message.

God, how long has it been since he’s had a total unresponsive episode like this? Several months? A year? He can’t remember, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter, either. What matters is it’s happening here and now and Hank is witnessing every second of it. That can’t be doing good things for his case.

Connor feels like every detail of the room in front of him is sharp and unpleasant. The light is glaring. The heating unit is running too loud. The couch is too scratchy, his clothes too soft. The scent of vanilla from the wax warmer he turned on this morning is too strong. His mouth tastes like peanut butter. Hank is too close.

He can’t fix any of it. He can’t fix anything, inside his head or outside of it.

“Hey, hey hey hey.” Hank is speaking again. “Can you do something for me? Blink twice if you can hear me.”

Connor does, eyes still staring at the wall. He can see it, he knows it’s there, but he also isn’t seeing it at all.

“Once for yes, twice for no, okay?”

Connor blinks.

“Good,” Hank says gently. “Are you having flashbacks?”

Connor hesitates. Is he? There’s _something_ in the back of his mind, dark and menacing, but he isn’t sure if it’s a memory or his own thoughts. He blinks twice. If it is a flashback, it’s fine. He can deal with it; this isn’t even the worst episode he’s had. It’s fine. He knows how to deal with it. Right?

“Hey,” Hank presses. “I need you to be completely honest with me right now. We’ll add a third option—three for ‘I’m not sure.’”

Connor draws in a trembling breath before blinking two times. After a second, he adds one more.

“It’s okay not to know. Everything is probably a lot for you right now, huh?” Hank goes to set a hand on Connor’s shoulder, but hesitates. “Is it all right if I touch you right now? Or is that going to make everything worse?”

Connor might not be sure of a lot right now, but he knows himself, more or less, and he knows how he tends to react to people touching him even on a good day. _Blink, blink._

“Thanks for telling me that.” Hank puts his hand down on the couch instead and moves a couple centimetres away from Connor. “You’re just fine, kid. I promise. Do you believe that?”

_What is “fine?” Living? Surviving? Being happy? Feeling everything, even when you’d rather not?_

He blinks once, because it is easier than even thinking about voicing any of that.

“Did something happen between when you left and now?”

_Blink, blink._

“Nothing triggered this?”

This time, three. He doesn’t know. All he knows is there was fear, then anger, and now emptiness. Maybe something he thought tripped it. Maybe something he saw, or an unconscious memory. Does it even matter?

Hank just keeps asking gentle questions, occasionally telling Connor that everything is fine. It seems unusual for the android to be so comforting, and Connor isn’t entirely sure he likes it. It’s almost easier to tolerate the jabs and call outs, because at least then he doesn’t feel like he’s being treated like glass. He’s never liked feeling fragile.

 _Well, that’s too bad,_ he tells himself bitterly, _because clearly “fragile” is exactly you are._

***

He isn’t sure how much time passes before he becomes completely aware of his surroundings again. It’s a gradual thing, like the high tide slowly waning out, leaving nothing but broken shells and worn down sand as a sign it was ever even there. Connor takes a deep breath and clenches his hands into fists before straightening them out. He does that once, twice, thrice. It feels strange—a bit like disrupting space itself by moving, like he’s stayed still so long that he ceased to exist and is now slowly tearing his way back into the world he left for a moment.

 _Wow, that’s dramatic_ , Connor criticises himself. _Don’t exaggerate_.

He rolls his shoulders back and bends his elbows, and finally he turns to look at Hank, who seemingly hasn’t moved an inch the entire time. His LED is still on yellow.

“Are you back?” Hank asks.

Connor nods.

“But you’re still not talking?”

Connor shakes his head, and Hank scoffs.

“You aren’t not talking, or no, you’re not talking?”

Connor nods, a small smile on his lips.

“Fucking smartarse,” Hank grumbles, crossing his arms. The blue is slowly beginning to creep back up with each careful cycle of the LED ring. “You’re doing this on purpose now. If I ask you questions, are you going to be serious, or are you back to normal enough that I’ve lost any and all hope of getting actual answers out of you?”

“A bit of both,” Connor answers, his voice coming out weak.

“I can deal with both, so long as you’re actually giving me _some_ serious answers.”

“Okay.” Connor pulls his legs up onto the couch and grabs the blanket, unfolding it and draping it over his shoulders. He wraps it tightly around his body.

“So, you feeling any better now?” Hank asks.

Connor shrugs. “A little. Thanks.”

“Good.” Hank nods. “You know what happened by any chance?”

“No,” Connor admits quietly. “I just… snapped, and in the amount of time it took me to get back here, I shattered. It happens. Don’t read into it.”

“Don’t read into it,” Hank repeats, rolling his eyes. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Completely ignore everything that’s happened today?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to?”

Hank scoffs. “You’re something else, Reed. Really something.” There’s a flicker of bright yellow at his temple for a fraction of a second before soft blue returns. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

“What?” Connor frowns. “Did I mean what?”

“The whole little speech you did about how if you die it’s by your hands,” Hank reminds him. “Everything you said there… did you mean it?”

Connor hesitates, thinking it over. Did he?

On the one hand, he doesn’t think that he _didn’t_ mean it. It had to have come from somewhere, right? But on the other, he isn’t entirely sure he meant the implications of it.

“I’m not sure,” he admits after several seconds of tense silence. There’s more silence as Hank’s LED turns yellow again, and Connor blurts, “I did mean that I’m not all right when I shook my head earlier.” He pauses, surprised at himself.

“I know,” Hank says gently. “That’s why we’re going to talk, Connor, and we’re going to figure out what’s going on and how to get past it. Not fix it, but work with it. I’m here to work with you, not against you, but you can’t keep it all in your head. You’re just getting yourself lost up there, and one day, you’re not going to be able to find your way out. You have to let shit out if you’re going to keep adding to the pile, and life continuously adds on whether you want it to or not.”

Connor desperately wants to argue, but he’s too tired. So instead, he nods in agreement. He can always argue about it later.

***

_A million moving parts to make one whole._

_A person, in a house, on a block, on a street, in a neighbourhood, in a subdivision, in a city, in a county, in a state, in a region, in a county, in a continent, on the Earth, in the Milky Way, in the universe._

_Everything can be broken down into parts._

_People included._

_We are nothing more than complex machines. We are made of moving parts, of programming. It determines our personality, our hair colour, our favourite things. We are, at our cores, machines._

_And each one of our little selves, with all our tiny parts, are part of a bigger machine. A machine has no emotions. No empathy, no soul. That’s what they say._

_People can be hopelessly cruel. So can androids. An android can be kind. Wise. Funny._

_“But that’s just their programming! They are meant to mimic humans to integrate better! They were made to be that way!”_

_By that logic, I am not human, and neither are you. I am made of flesh and bone, just the same as anyone else, but our “programming,” our DNA, dictates everything, as I said earlier. Our brains are constantly learning, picking up from our environment. So are theirs. Artificial intelligence is a mere construct, not a set reality. Maybe it started differently, but it evolved._

_If humans are not machines in the way that people think androids are, then I see no reason why androids should be considered such._

_In fact, I think we only have one real machine in our world anymore, and we cannot escape it. It is always controlling us, telling us what to do. We are but mere cogs in it._

_Say hello to the monster, to the machine, that is our societal rule._

_It is the only thing that separates “us” from “them.”_

_Tear it down, and you see equality._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm like fucking Sherlock Holmes popping up three years later, lol. I'm trying to update more frequently, I swear! It's just been a crazy few weeks and vacation didn't help writing. 
> 
> But thank you guys so much for sticking around! Or if you're new, thanks for reading. I appreciate every one of y'all.  
> Feel free to leave comments with what you liked, didn't like, expect will happen, theorised in the shower... you get it. It really motivates me to write when I know that people actually care about this and I'm not just screaming into the void that is the internet. :)
> 
> Much love! 💕💕💕


	5. Water From The Bottom Of A Pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! A new chapter? Christmas came early!
> 
> I'm honestly so sorry this took so long but I really didn't like this chapter and ended up rewriting it a couple times. I also got a job and my physical health started spiralling downhill again, so... many month delay. But! It is here!
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: minor physical violence related to an anxiety attack.

The clock reads _06:12_ when Connor wakes the next morning. He sits up, holding a hand to his head. Once he blinks away the morning dizziness, he stands. The door is open, and thankfully Hank is nowhere near. He thinks he might be starting to get used to this whole thing, though it’s still irritating to have an android imposing on his home.

Connor makes his bed before he plods sleepily to the kitchen, pulling out a glass and filling it with water. He drinks it quickly and sets it by the sink.

“You’re up early. Would it be too much to ask you to eat?”

Connor sighs as he looks back at Hank, who’s now standing just inside the kitchen. “Probably.”

“At least I tried,” Hank says with a shrug.

“No one’s not going to give you credit for that,” Connor assures him. He pushes past Hank to walk back to his bedroom.

“So what’s the rush?” Hank asks, following him.

Connor shuts the door in his face. “Don’t you dare come in! I’m getting dressed for lunch with friends!”

“Like I don’t know you’re just gathering clothes to go take a shower, right?”

Connor bites back a bitter curse word.

“Yeah, thought so,” Hank calls through the wood with a laugh. “Fuckin’ thought so.”

Connor yanks down a navy blue button-down shirt and black slacks, tossing them to the bed. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls out a tie from a drawer.

When he opens the door, he elbows his way past Hank with a dirty glare. The android just smiles irritatingly.

Connor showers quickly, then dries himself with quick, precise movements. He doesn’t open the door as he agonises over his hair, liking the illusion of privacy he has at the moment.

It’s shattered the second he opens the door—hair still damp, shirt still partially undone, and with his tie hanging around his neck—to see Hank in the hallway. Connor huffs, finishing buttoning his shirt, and walks to the bedroom.

Once there, Connor ties and adjusts his tie and shivers lightly in the cool air, staring at himself in the mirror.

“So, I’m a tad confused here. Are you going to lunch with some old friends or a meeting with the mob?” Hank asks, watching from the corner of the bedroom.

“Both,” Connor answers, catching Hank’s eyes in the mirror. “Obviously.”

Hank just snorts. “Yeah, clearly.”

“My friends are the mob,” Connor continues, the faintest trace of a smile turning up his lips.

“All right then, Reed.” Hank sighs. “Whatever you say.”

“It’s just Kara and Markus,” Connor explains. He turns to face Hank. “How do I look?”

“What am I supposed to say?” Hank asks. “You look fine. It’s ‘just Kara and Markus,’ isn’t it? Who, by the way, I don’t know _anything_ about.”

“You don’t need to know anything about them,” Connor replies, moving a stray piece of hair back. “You’re not coming.” His body tenses involuntarily as he stares at Hank’s unchanging expression. “Are you?”

“After your little stunt yesterday, I think it’s probably best if I do,” Hank says slowly. “I can’t let anything happen to you.”

“Why not?” Connor spits. “I’m just an assignment, you said. Don’t tell me you’re going _deviant_ , Hank. Are you beginning to _feel_ something?”

There’s a brief cycle of yellow, and then Hank sighs.

“Very nasty, Connor,” he says, no inflection in his voice. “You just keep on trying to bait me, son. Let me know how it works out for you.”

Connor steps forward and shoves Hank hard in the chest, the sudden anger simmering even more when it does nothing. “You’re so smug! I hate it!” He shoves Hank again. “I hate _you!_ ”

“You’re hardly the first to say that,” Hank says, looking over Connor’s face calmly.

“You’re smug and irritating and you don’t know what you’re doing or how to deal with me, so quit acting like we’re friends because we’re not and _never_ will be!” Connor spits.

Hank opens his mouth to reply, but Connor cuts him off before a sound even gets to escape.

“I think you’re stuck up and a know it all and I want you gone!”

“You know, you really need to look at things from a different perspective,” Hank says, his voice hushed. “Sit down a second, would you?”

Connor crosses his arms and leans back against the dresser, glaring.

“Okay, uncross your arms, Reed,” Hank instructs. “Mind your body language.”

A deep sigh, and then Connor does as he’s told. He shrugs and runs his fingers over his tie.

“The entire time I’ve been here, you’ve given me nothing but shit,” Hank begins. “Now just stand there and fuckin’ listen, okay?

“I’m trying to _help_ you, and you’re doing nothing but shoving back and fighting, all the time. You won’t take basic care of yourself, and when I push you to do it, you get upset. You argue almost every time I tell you to do anything. You insist you’re fine when you’re obviously not. Now, I’m not human, but do you see how that _could_ make people upset?” Hank shakes his head. “People care about you, whether you see it or not. So would you maybe work with me instead of against me? If not for you, then how about for your friends or family? You say you want me gone. The only way that’s happening is if you _listen and do as you’re told._ Now, don’t say anything. Nod if you understand, or shake your head if you don’t.”

Connor’s nose twitches a bit, but after a couple of seconds he nods.

Hank nods. “Good. I’ll stay out of your way if that’s what you want, but I’m keeping an eye on you because that’s what I was programmed to do. Got it?”

“Am I allowed to speak now?” Connor asks.

Hank just glares at him. Connor swallows and nods again.

“Yeah,” Hank says, smiling. “That’s what I thought. You know, you’ve got a fair amount of smartarse in you, kid. Channel it right and you’ll go far in life. You have to piss off the right people, though, and I’m not it, so save it.”

“What happened to not being human?” Connor shoots back.

Hank says nothing. Instead, he just stands and exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

That increasingly familiar yellow glow still burns behind Connor’s eyelids long after it’s gone.

***

“I’ll sit right here,” Hank tells Connor. “You won’t even notice me.”

“Uh huh,” Connor mumbles, not really paying attention.

“Hey, you listening?” Hank snaps his fingers. The sound is a bit different to when humans do it—far more clicky.

“Sorry,” Connor says, rubbing his face. “Yeah, I’m listening. Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise so much,” Hank sighs. “Apologies are for people who did something wrong. You seem to apologise for just existing sometimes. Take it easy.”

“Sorry.”

Hank mutters a curse under his breath and shakes his head.

“I’m going to go sit and wait,” Connor says after a moment. Hank nods, and Connor doesn’t wait for another response. He takes a seat at a round four-person table, leaving Hank alone at the two-person table he chose.

No sooner does Connor sit down and set his rucksack down, does an android waitress come up to him. She talks quickly and excitedly, juxtaposing her statue-like pose as she clasps her hands behind her back and stares ahead blankly. Her white Cyberlife uniform is pristine and without wrinkles in any place. Connor’s eyes flick up to the blue LED at her right temple, cycling as she runs through her pre-programmed spiel. Androids that were made to work with the general public are usually bubbly and friendly, but they never quite replicate humans perfectly.

“Sir?”

Connor blinks, tearing his gaze away from her freckled face. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

He can already hear Gavin laughing at him for apologising to a machine.

“I asked if I could get you anything to drink or if you needed a moment,” the android waitress says, smiling at him. Her social AI has has kicked in now that she’s finished her speech, and she seems far more human-like.

“Um, just—just some ice water, please,” Connor stammers.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back with that!” She leaves, and Connor lets out a shaky breath. He glances up at Hank, who still sits in exactly the same position, still watching him. A wave of nausea washes over Connor at it.

He needs to distract himself.

He picks up his bag and pulls out a notebook and pen. He doesn’t look at Hank as he opens to a blank page and begins to write.

Connor doesn’t want to see the look of disapproval on his face.

***

November 10th, 2039 - 11:49 AM

_We will never be the children that run and play and don’t give a damn about anything because they can’t understand the world around them. The kids that believe in monsters and magic… those kids grow up and learn that magic is nothing more than an illusion, and all those monsters aren’t hidden under the bed—they live inside you._

_They claw through your heart, ripping your dreams and ambitions to shreds. They leave you hollow and empty until nothing remains. That’s when the demons take over._

_The demons whisper in the night, telling you things you previously only heard in your nightmares. Eventually, it becomes routine, and you can’t imagine a life without them. You fall away. The children who love and trust are the ones who are torn apart the fastest. The weakest must go, after all. This world is nothing but survival._

_The lights fade out, and you find yourself lost in the dark. Nothing can bring back the light, so you try to make do with what you have. You break apart, but you try to save face because that’s what you’re expected to do. “I’m fine” becomes your standard response and you repeat it so much, too much, until—_

_You repeat it until you begin to believe it, until you can trick yourself into thinking it’s true._

_We are made of the things we say to ourselves even more than we are of the things people tell us, I’ve found. I really wish that I could just turn it all off, because the truth is, it hurts. All the memories and the constant feelings of just not being enough. All the stupid jokes and It hurts like hell and I wish I could turn off my head. It’s just not that simple, though._

_It hurts, it hurts so badly. And I’ve always told myself that pain is better than numbness, but I think I’m finding that I’ve been wrong, so wrong._

***

Connor closes his notebook as footsteps approach the table, ignoring Hank completely. He quickly places it back into his bag and looks up, expecting the waitress. Instead, he sees a glass already in front of him and on a small coaster. When he sees the newcomer, a smile takes over his face.

“Hey, stranger,” Markus greets, his hands in the pockets of his brown coat. “I guess Kara’s not here yet?”

“She won’t be long,” Connor replies. He stands, extending a hand. Markus shakes it, then pulls him close and hugs him tightly.

“It’s good to see you,” Markus whispers. He pats Connor’s back twice before letting go of him again.

“It’s good to see you as well,” Connor replies.

“What can I get you to drink, sir?” the android waitress asks Markus, smiling.

“Just a glass of ice water with lemon would be fine, thank you,” Markus tells her.

“Of course! I’ll get that right out for you, sir.” She looks at Connor, her high ponytail swishing. “And can I get you some more water, sir?”

“I—um, sure,” Connor stammers. He clumsily reaches for the glass, nearly knocking it over, and the android picks it up before Connor can succeed in doing that. She walks away quickly. Connor sits back down as Markus takes the seat opposite of him. “Are you still in graphic design?”

“Yeah,” Markus answers with a shrug. “Splitting between that and selling original paintings every so often. I’m just going to keep on creating. Well, until the machines replace me, that is.” He laughs, and Connor smiles politely. He’s surprised by how naturally they’ve fallen back in rhythm. He had assumed it would be awkward.

“Here you are, sir,” the waitress says softly, setting a glass of water with a lemon slice adorning the edge in front of Markus. “And you as well, sir.” She sets Connor’s in front of him, and he moves it to the square coaster he’s been using. He looks up to thank her, but she’s already gone, working on serving a family a couple of tables over.

“No machine can replicate real artistic genius,” Connor assures Markus. “You’re safe.”

“Mmm, you never know. What about that one android that wrote a whole bestselling novel?”

“It was boring,” Connor sighs. “I read it and hated it. How it ended up being a bestseller is beyond me. It was written based on an algorithm, meaning there was no real creativity to it. It’s an insult to human writers everywhere, and I would know.”

“You and your critical eye for literature,” Markus says, rolling his eyes fondly. “Still working as an editor for the Citizen, I assume? In your spare moments when you’re not drowning yourself in your own manuscript, I mean?”

“Unfortunately,” Connor replies with a laugh. “Until the machines replace me, that is.”

“Very funny,” Markus replies.

“Hey, you two better not be having fun without me!” a female’s voice calls. Before Connor can say or do anything, bony arms are wrapping around his shoulders and someone’s head rests atop his own. He smiles involuntarily as lips press against the top of his head and the weight disappears.

“Hi, Kara,” Markus greets, standing up and hugging her tightly.

“Sorry I’m late.” Kara laughs as she pulls out a chair and hangs her coat on the back of it. “I had to drop some paperwork off and traffic was awful. But, no need to worry, because the fun has arrived.”

“Where?” Markus jokes. “I don’t see it.”

“Hey!” Kara cries, still smiling brightly. “No one likes a rain cloud over their parade, Markus.” She folds her hands and beams at Connor. “Hello, stranger! It is so good to see you smiling and laughing.”

“Hey, Kara,” Connor greets. “It’s really good to see you as well. Believe it or not, but I have missed you.”

“Yeah? Well, miss me no longer.” Kara picks up the menu in front of Markus and begins to see read over it. “Hopefully this opens a door to us seeing each other more often, hmm?”

“Hopefully,” Connor repeats, nodding.

“Have you two ordered yet?” Kara asks, still reading.

“Just drinks,” Markus answers. “We’re not _that_ rude.”

Kara’s lips twitch. “Tell that to Luther, who went to the restroom and came back to find that you and Alice had not only _ordered_ but _gotten your food_ in that time.”

“He was gone for, like, twenty minutes and we were hungry,” Markus argues. “It wasn’t even a busy restaurant!”

“Still!” Kara huffs.

“Guys,” Connor pleads, lowering his voice and glancing nervously at Hank, who’s watching quietly with raised eyebrows. “Please, can we just have a nice, argument-free lunch? Please?”

“Of course,” Kara says. She looks at Markus, then at Connor again. “I’m sorry.”

“We were just messing around,” Markus assures him, “but sure thing.”

“Oh, sorry,” Connor mumbles, looking down. “Sorry, I should’ve realised.”

“No, no!” Kara chides. “We don’t want to make you uncomfortable and give you more reasons to stay away, do we?”

Despite the warm tone of her voice and the seemingly permanent smile that lights up her face, Connor feels like she just punched him in the stomach. He takes a sip of his ice water and focuses on trying to control his breathing as he stares at the false wood grain of the table.

“Hello, ma’am,” the android waitress greets Kara, her smile still plastered on her face. “What can I get you to drink?”

“An iced tea would be amazing,” Kara tells her.

“Of course!” the android says, nodding. “Will that be sweet or unsweet?”

“Sweet, please,” Kara answers.

“Yes, ma’am; I will get that to you in just a moment. Are you three ready to order or should I give you a few more minutes to decide?”

“I think we’re ready,” Markus says. Kara nods her agreement. After a second of hesitation, Connor does the same. “I’ll have the Reuben sandwich with a cup of fruit, please.”

“Yes, sir,” the android acknowledges. She looks at Kara. “And for you, ma’am?”

“A flatbread tuna melt, please,” Kara answers, handing the waitress the menu.

“Yes, ma’am.” The android waitress turns to Connor. “And for you, sir?”

“I—just a salad, please,” Connor mumbles.

“Just a salad?” Kara asks. There’s nothing accusatory in her tone, and yet, Connor still feels like he’s somehow done something wrong.

“I’m not really hungry right now,” he says. He looks up and meets Hank’s disapproving gaze, and then he quickly looks back to the table.

“What are you looking at?” Markus asks, turning in his seat and looking around the café. He frowns. “What’s an android doing in here without a human?”

“I have no idea,” Connor lies. “Maybe his… owner is in the bathroom?”

He doesn’t miss the way Hank’s frown deepens even more at that.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” Kara says, shaking her head. “Come on, guys. Talk to me.”

Connor looks down at the table. “About…?”

“Anything,” Kara answers. “How’s life? Any new stories of your eager heroism?” She winks, and Connor feels like something deep inside him shakes loose at her question.

“N-nothing new, no,” Connor stammers, even as his gaze flit back to Hank.

“Nothing?” Markus repeats, the slightest trace of disapproval in his calm voice. “Not a thing?”

“Not really,” Connor lies. “Come on, guys. I would tell if there was something important, right?”

“I…” Kara hesitates on her answer. Her eyes meet Markus’, and the two seem to have an entire conversation with nothing but facial expressions. “We talked to Nines.”

_Shit!_

Connor swallows back his panic. “Oh, really? When?”

“This morning,” Markus admits quietly. “He called us.”

“What? Why?” Connor can feel the panic creeping up.

“I don’t know _why_ , but he said you came to visit last night, for the first time in a while,” Markus answers.”

“Well, yes, I—I did,” Connor replies. His fingers clutch at the edge of his seat.

“He said you were acting… a bit strange,” Kara adds, “and we didn’t really, well, didn’t think twice about it. Everyone acts a bit strange around Nines, I think. But even just being here with you, in the last ten minutes, I can definitely see it.”

“What’s… what’s strange, exactly?” Connor asks, his voice weaker than he wants it to be.

“You’re more nervous than usual,” Kara begins.

“You keep looking over my shoulder like you expect that android to attack you,” Markus adds. “You just won’t relax.”

“You’re not eating like you normally would.”

“You’re keeping everything oddly impersonal.”

“Nines said you wouldn’t talk to him honestly, either.”

“Okay, _what_ did Nines say, exactly, when he called you?” Connor demands.

“I do believe the first thing I said was simply ‘hello,’” Nines’ familiar voice says from behind Connor.

Connor tenses, his entire body stiffening. He doesn’t miss how both Kara and Markus look deeply uncomfortable as Nines pulls out a chair and sits to Connor’s right, between him and Markus.

“Hello, Nines,” Kara greets, forcing a polite smile.

 _This can’t be happening. This can_ not _be happening._

“Good afternoon, Kara,” Nines acknowledges. He looks to his right. “Markus.”

“Nines,” Markus returns.

Nines glances at Connor, and though he gives a small smile, there is no mistaking his thinly-veiled anger. He isn’t here for a social call.

“Why are you here?” Connor whispers.

“Yes!” Markus snaps his fingers and points at Nines accusingly. “ _Why_ are you here?”

“Get that finger away from me, Manfred, or God as my witness you will not have it when I’m through with you,” Nines says quietly.

Markus sets his hands in his lap without hesitation.

“I did not realise that you would take such offence to my presence,” Nines continues as he stands back up. “Since it clearly bothers you _so_ much, I’ll be going.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded sheet of paper, setting it in front of Connor. “Have a good afternoon.”

Connor picks up the page, going to unfold it, but he’s stopped when Nines’ hand slams down over the top of his, pinning it to the table. Connor freezes. He turns his head and meets Nines’ blue-grey eyes.

“Not yet,” Nines whispers seriously. “If you let _anyone_ read it, I will find out, and I _will_ kill you.”

“I—I understand,” Connor stammers, eyes wide.

Nines narrows his eyes, then nods. He lets go of Connor’s hand and stands back up, straightening his coat with a small huff. Without so much as a “goodbye,” he exits the small café as the android waitress returns with a tray of food. With Kara and Markus distracted, Connor takes the opportunity to slip the page into his pocket.

He doesn’t miss the odd expression on Hank’s face when he looks past his companions.

***

“How was it?” Hank asks as Connor sits beside him in the cab.

Connor slumps back against the seat and lets out a long, slow breath. “It was… fine.”

“Really?” Hank sighs. “Just ‘fine?’”

“Fine,” Connor insists. He shoves a hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the crumpled sheet of paper. He pulls it out and stares at it.

“Nines gave that to you,” Hank says quietly. It isn’t a question, but a statement.

Connor just gives a small grunt in response, turning the page over in his lap. After several seconds of debating whether Hank counts as “someone,” he opens it.

***

_Connor,_

_I want you to know that I have thought long and hard about what you said to me. Unlike you, I won’t lie about my feelings—your words hurt a lot more than I think either of us expected._

_I don’t expect an apology. I don’t even expect you to feel sorry. I can only blame myself for thinking you were any different from everyone else._

_Some people were meant to be alone. Sometimes I forget that I’m one of them._

_You are not a bad person. I never want you to think that you are because you are not. You do not possess the capability for evil. It is one of the many things I have long admired about you. I do think, however, that you are sometimes blinded to the power your words hold. You have an extraordinary gift for storytelling. I wonder if you ever realise how many stories you tell yourself, how many you convince yourself are true._

_If you want to get rid of the symptoms, you must treat the problem. This is why I am pulling back from our friendship for the time being. I hope that you will take advantage of this break and focus on both allowing the HX800 help you and on working past the personal problems that appear to cloud your judgment._

_I wish you all the best, Connor. I’m not doing this out of anger, but out of concern. I sincerely apologise for anything I’ve said that might be taken the wrong way._

_Despite all this, I faithfully remain_

_Your friend,_

_Nines_

***

Connor feels ill as he sets the handwritten letter back in his lap. His chest aches as he struggles to breathe normally, trying to keep from flying into a full-blown panic.

_No, no no no._

How did he manage to mess up _this_ badly?

The cab stops outside of his house, and Connor numbly steps onto the lawn, walking through it rather than taking the driveway. He unlocks the front door with shaking hands and steps inside. Hank follows close behind, watching him with a concerned expression.

“Kid, you need to calm down,” Hank instructs. He follows the human towards the kitchen. “Take a deep breath. You’re fine.”

“No, no, I am _not_ fine!” Connor shouts, slamming a hand down on the counter. He loosens his tie and throws it on the table, his nails digging into his palms.

_“When you’re upset with yourself, when you feel like hurting yourself, try doing it to something that won’t feel it. Fruit wouldn’t be a bad idea. An apple, for example.”_

He yanks open a drawer and barely has his fingers around the handle of a knife when Hank grabs his wrist and pins it to the counter, fingers digging in hard.

“Let go of me!” Connor screams as he fights against Hank. His right hand reaches for the knife, instinct taking over completely. “ _Stop it!_ What the hell is wrong with you? Let go!”

“Connor, listen to me,” Hank says, his voice urgent as he gets his hand around Connor’s other wrist and pulls him away from the counter. Connor twists desperately in Hank’s grasp, survival mode now completely in control. “Put down the knife—Connor, _please!_ Let go of it. Listen to me, okay?”

“Don’t you fucking _touch_ me!” Connor begs, freeing his left arm.

Without warning, Hank steps back quickly, and that’s when Connor notices the violent slash of blue on his forearm, where his coat has been torn. Thirium drips from the wound, pooling on the kitchen tile. Hank is staring at him in a mixture of shock and concern, LED a bright yellow. Not quite distressed, but alarmed.

_You did that because you’re overreacting. You always do._

Connor drops the knife and sinks to the floor, sobbing raggedly as he curls into himself. He hears footsteps coming near and wraps his arms over his head, bracing for an impact that never comes.

“Connor,” Hank whispers in horror. “Oh, my God.”

The human trembles as a gentle hand rests between his shoulder blades. It doesn’t hurt, but it will. Connor can already feel the way it will move up to his shoulder, squeezing so tightly that there will be dark bruises that stay for weeks.

_…it all hurts._

There’s a familiar twisting of his stomach as if someone has punched him. He gags, the taste of something bitter filling his mouth. He swallows back bile.

His fingers dig into his skin, and Connor glances up blearily. There’s an alleyway overlaying the kitchen, making him feel dizzy and panicked. He can feel the tiles against his knees, knows exactly where he is in reality, but it doesn’t change the spike of fear that makes his heart jump.

Hank is whispering something that sounds vaguely soothing as his hand gently rubs up and down against Connor’s back, but the words may as well be in Chinese for all Connor can understand them. He lets out a shaking breath, shuddering against the cold tile.

***

Connor opens his eyes slowly, blinking awake to find himself still on the kitchen floor. He sits up and pushes off the blanket that lies over his shoulders. It only takes seconds to find Hank, who is sitting at the kitchen table, watching him closely.

“H-how long—” Connor coughs, his throat burning.

“About an hour,” Hank answers. “It’s three-thirty in the afternoon.” The android cocks his head. “You feeling any better, kid?”

“A bit,” Connor admits. He pulls the blanket tight around his shoulders, crossing his legs. “Thanks.”

Hank gives him a small smile. “It’s what I was made for.”

“Why did you do that?” Connor asks quietly. “Grab me like that, I mean.”

His question is met with silence. Finally, Hank sighs.

“I thought you had that knife to hurt yourself,” he answers. “But you didn’t, did you?”

“ _What?_ No!” Connor doesn’t even try to hide his expression of surprise. “I don’t—I wouldn’t…”

But the more he thinks about it, the more he sees exactly how Hank came to that conclusion.

“I was just planning to cut up an apple,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the last syllable. Of _course_ everyone would think he would immediately jump to self-harm. _Of course._

“I know, and I’m sorry,” Hank replies. “I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions like that, but shit, Connor, you don’t know how unsettling it is when someone gets into that state, even for me as an android. I was just trying to do what I thought would keep you safe, but I didn’t take into account how—or if—it would make everything worse.” He looks uncomfortable as he adds, “I just can’t seem to get anything right with you for some reason.”

“Maybe you are,” Connor says, his voice so hushed that he barely hears the words himself. “Maybe I just don’t like it.”

“Yeah?” Hank asks quietly.

Connor hesitates, surprised at himself for saying that. He isn’t sure if he wants to confirm that Hank heard him right, but he comes to his choice quickly.

“Yeah,” he replies. He averts his gaze, stretching out his legs and crossing them in front of him. “Well, I have things to do…”

Hank extends a hand, and Connor takes it carefully. He lets Hank pull him up into a standing position.

“Thank you,” Connor whispers.

Hank doesn’t respond verbally, but he offers a small smile instead. Connor runs a hand through his hair and straightens his shirt, still wearing the blanket over his shoulders like like a cape. He leans against the counter with a sigh.

“I think I’m going to write for a little while,” Connor decides after a few seconds. He pushes off the counter and walks to the living room. He practically collapses onto the sofa and wraps the blanket tighter around his body, then grabs his laptop and unlocks it. He ignores Hank, who stands in the kitchen doorway, a pang of bitterness emerging in his chest.

***

_“These are the doom days.”_

_That is a sentence I will never forget hearing a random passerby say._

_“It’s the beginning of the rapture.”_

_“The start of something wicked and vile.”_

_Elijah Kamski opted to call the revolution something of… a new beginning._

_Many speculate that the reinstated CEO of Cyberlife had something to do with the revolution, that he started it somehow._

_“Never trust the rich and famous,” Tina told me once. “They’re all batshit crazy. It wouldn’t shock me if Kamski started deviancy somehow. He spends all his time in that big old house with those creepy Chloe androids. They’re all so doll-like; it’s honestly freaky. He needs a better hobby than spending all day fucking around with those things.”_

_I wonder if she would say that if she knew that the androids were modelled after Elijah’s late girlfriend, that the reason he spent so long perfecting them in physical appearance and mechanics alike was in tribute to her, as a way to cope with his grief over losing the woman he planned to marry._

_Her name was Chloe Hart. She died on February 11th, 2020 in a car crash._

_Elijah had planned to propose to her on Valentine’s Day._

_It is easy to look at him and say “He has it all.” I know I did, many times. Graduating at sixteen from the University of Colbridge, an IQ of one-hundred-seventy-one, a net worth of over a hundred and twenty billion dollars, a company that everyone knows by name…_

_Oh, how I envied him. I truly did._

Here _, I thought,_ is a man who has it all figured out.

***

Connor pauses, re-reading what is on his page. He highlights the entire section and deletes it, a spark of shame igniting in his chest at the idea of revealing something so personal about his reclusive half-brother. He’ll come back to the manuscript later.

Connor opens a new tab and enters in a brief search query.

_hx800 androids_

The first links that come up are advertisements. Connor scrolls past them and clicks on the official Cyberlife website.

_The HX800 androids are designed to assist within the mental health field. Unlike the discontinued KL900 series, the HX800 work with patients within their own homes. They are designed to assess patient risk and stress levels, and react accordingly._

Connor stares at the wall of text in front of him, hot nausea curling up in his gut. He swallows and continues on.

_Released in February of 2039, the HX800 quickly garnered favour from psychiatric professionals due to its ability to conform to the patient’s needs or preferences within their own home. The advanced speech and AI protocols of this android allows it to adapt easily and gain the trust of its intended target. Equipped with an advanced pre-construction software, the HX800 can accurately predict a patient’s behaviour and act to keep them safe from themselves._

Connor grinds his teeth together. _Safe from themselves…_ He shoves that thought aside and continues to read.

_This android comes in multiple physical designs for the ease of the patient; however, the programming and pre-assigned directives of the HX800 are non-customisable. This is due to the concern of the effects it could have on the assigned patient’s safety, if anything were changed._

He really wishes they would stop using the word “patient…”

_This android must be assigned by either law enforcement, a judge’s court order, or a psychiatrist._

_All HX800 androids are regularly tested to ensure they are working at their full capacity, both mechanically and superficially. An_ _HX800 test log_ _is available here on the Cyberlife website._

_⚠ This android is currently not available for purchase by the general public! ⚠ _

_Cyberlife strives to provide only the best for its customers. Questions? Comments? Please feel free to contact us or visit your nearest Cyberlife store! (_ _Store locator_ _)_

Connor scoffs and shakes his head in distaste.

“Something the matter?” Hank asks.

“None of your business,” Connor answers. He closes the Cyberlife website and returns to his document, chewing idly on the inside of his cheek.

***

_**Introduction: A Background in Androids and Deviants** _

_[rewrite? new title? collaborate with elijah?]_

_(Paragraph 1: too weak?)_

_Androids, the technological advancement of the century. There is no denying_ _that_ _these machines are vital not only to America, but the entire world [too clunky?]. Not only do they provide menial labour for many businesses, but they also work for the government, doing projects that would be too dangerous for humans [shorten?]. Many of us rely on androids in our day-to-day lives as well. _

_Despite all the need we place on androids, many are still alarmed by the events that transpired last year._

_(quotations: cut or keep?)_

_“How,” they ask, “do we know that it won’t happen again?”_

_“Can we trust our machines?”_

_The answers are that we_ don’t _know, and we have very little choice so we must._

***

By the time Connor shuts down his laptop, an idea has begun to form in his head. It’s a completely stupid idea, a _very_ bad one, but also the only thing he has.

The biggest problem is going to be getting Nines to give up the information he’s going to need. It won’t be easy, but it’s possible.

“I’m going to bed,” Connor calls, walking to his bedroom quickly. He shuts the door and sits on his bed, then sends Nines a quick text.

From: Connor Reed (00:01)  
_Hey, what do you have on androids and the original deviants of 2038?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quiet chapter? Oh no, maybe I should have something horrible happen in the next couple chapters to balance it out...


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